


Two Hundred and Twenty One B, Baker Street

by Ridiculosity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Maid, Maid Trope, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlolly - Freeform, Victorian, Victorian Molly Hooper, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, bittersweet angst I guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 64,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6323647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ridiculosity/pseuds/Ridiculosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has decided, categorically, that he is done with the process of hiring maids, whether they be efficient or not. Mrs. Hudson can manage, despite whatever she says about her hip, and the arduous process can be ignored, at least for a while.<br/>Of course, things hardly ever go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wandered Lonely Without a Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLittleSparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittleSparrow/gifts), [InMollysWildestDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InMollysWildestDreams/gifts).



> Because why not? Just because of the Christmas Special featured the best genderbent!Molly and crossdressed!Molly doesn't mean we can't hark back to the age old Personal Maid trope. 
> 
> Of course, a word of warning: I have researched very little. I rely on my knowledge gathered by my Jeremy Brett phase and the frankly ENDLESS number of Victorian based shows I have seen. A lot also has to do with with the number of Victorian AUs I have read.

Sherlock _detested_ finding a new maid every few months.

It was a difficult task getting a girl who was willing to work in one of the busiest cities where employment was manifold, even for women. It was more difficult training her how he saw fit. And it was difficult to see the ultimate failure he faced when the girl would eventually break down into tears or run away at the sight of a disembodied finger.

He had thrown his hands up at the whole process. After a lot of serious arguing with Mrs. Hudson, he had convinced her that he would not hire another maid. She insisted that she needed help, what with her hip and everything. Sherlock was convinced that she wanted this help out of sheer annoyance at what a task it was to manage him – particularly once Watson had left.

Sherlock had to confess, he was fond of his companion. Watson had been an excellent friend while unmarried, and it only stood to reason that the condition of love would worsen with every hurdle he and his wife would cross. Even when Sherlock had met Mary Watson – the then Mary Morstan, he had known that this one would be hard to get rid of. This one was in danger of being fallen in love with. This one might even make John happy.

It was a difficult thought to get used to, especially since he had wrapped his head around the idea that Watson would need no one else to be happy.

Still, Mary wasn’t all bad. Despite Watson’s rather obvious disregard for her as a woman who could very clearly handle herself in hell or high water, she persevered. But her perseverance immediately meant that Watson required things like a steady income, fixed times, and so on.

Something that Sherlock had always been happy to ignore. The lack of attachment made him hopelessly in control of what he wished to do. The only reason he had kept to London for so long was that he enjoyed the city. It was a cesspool of thoughts which he alone could decipher. The living London had far too many stories to tell.

And in the end, even he knew that one of those stories would be the hiring of another maid. Because while he could vehemently deny Mrs. Hudson’s need for a maid to help her along, he also knew that the woman was old. And while Sherlock would like to believe that he took and objective view to her work being on top form, he also knew that he liked the old lady.

But for now, he could bully her into not needing to conduct more interviews.

* * *

 

“Yes?” answered an old lady at the door.

“Is this the residence of Mr. Holmes?” she asked. “Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes?” answered the old lady. “Have you come to seek his expertise?”

Molly filed that away for later use. She didn’t care what Sherlock Holmes did, for she really needed a job. “I came answering your advertisement in the paper?” said Molly. “For a maid?”

“Oh, well, I’m afraid Mr. Holmes has decided not to hire after all,” said the old woman. “Very sorry for the trouble you took.”

Molly was almost ready to start crying at the frozen step. She had spent money on her trip to one of the more posh areas of London, and she was not getting it back.

“Please, ma’am,” said Molly pleadingly. “I really need a job.”

The old lady seemed to be relenting. “Well, you see, he has had a bit of a fit in the matter,” she said. “He refuses to take on a maid because the interviews always cause him a headache. In addition, the man you intend to work for is a very, _very_ difficult man to work with. It would be best if you returned in a while – once his temper has cooled. He _will_ have to hire a maid, you can depend on _that,_ dear. But it will not be today.”

Molly wanted to hit her head on something.

“Very well,” she said quietly. “I will return, should you ever need a maid.”

The old woman seemed to be thinking rather deeply. “Tell me, what all do you know?”

“Ma’am?” asked Molly.

“Where keeping the house is concerned, dear,” said the woman impatiently.

“Oh!” said Molly. “I know how to cook, sew, iron, clean and dust. I am willing to do almost anything you ask of me.”

“I have an idea, however, it is a little unorthodox,” said the woman.

“Believe me, ma’am, I am nothing if not unorthodox,” said Molly fervently.

“What would you say if I told you that I intended to keep you for a week, only? As a trial period, to see how much you know?” she said.

“I would say that I will be completely all right with that,” said Molly.

“I will give you a week’s worth of wages, test your abilities and see if you are fit. By that time, Mr. Holmes should be ready to interview, and I will tell him of it. You can then see if you wish to work with as difficult a man as him.”

“I do like the idea, ma’am,” said Molly, smiling a little finally. “But what if this – well, as you say – difficult man flies into rage over the plot?”

“I have enough power over him to hire someone I think is suitable for a short duration,” said the woman. “Leave that to me. However, you must make yourself scarce. It will be impossible to hide you forever – he is an infuriatingly sharp man, but I suppose we can manage for a day or two. Maybe three, if we are careful, but that would be ambitious.”

“That sharp?” asked Molly, her eyes wide.

“Oh, terribly. I can barely manage to do anything without him knowing whatever happened to me throughout the day. Now do come in. We must discuss your wages. By the by, I am Mrs. Hudson. None of that ‘ma’am’ business.”

* * *

 

The first few days were an exercise in finding out what her employer _did._

It was a difficult dance to play, especially since the man she was playing with didn’t know he had an opponent. However, she was resolved in keeping her presence in two hundred and twenty one B a secret from the employer himself. A week. That was what was agreed on, despite Mrs. Hudson’s assurance that she would not manage a day.

When Mrs. Hudson brought her in, she had a look at the house. She decided to make some careful calculations on what she could do to avoid him and what she could not.

For instance, it was obvious that his hours were irregular. At the same time, it was obvious that he cared little for who kept the house as long as Mrs. Hudson’s hip didn’t give away and as long as it was kept. This would be the easiest aspect to work with, since it ensured she didn’t need to be too careful with her methods of cooking and cleaning.

But then there was everything that Mrs. Hudson had told her: the fact that he was unerringly sharp, bad tempered and someone who _still_ seemed to like certain routines. That was obvious with the dust around the tea jar. He hadn’t shifted it in ages.

Cleaning around it would be _very_ difficult.

Molly was smart enough to realise this and dance around the edges, for the first day. She cleaned while he slept, determining that he was still in the middle of rather deep sleep. The living room was organised delicately, as if she had something to fear from the man who had employed him. She made sure all his specimens were kept carefully, not questioning _why_ they were there. She found some of the experiments intriguing, but she did not linger. She itched to categorise them all, but knew that it was dangerous to do so.

She hadn’t even _seen_ her employer so far.

Once he was awake, she quickly made the breakfast in the downstairs kitchen. Mrs. Hudson delivered it, and Molly was careful to follow her instructions as to how he liked his meals. Once the breakfast had gone up, she took a deep breath, and began cleaning again.

There was laundry to take care of while the man was upstairs, shirts to be sewn (Mrs. Hudson had given her an enormous pile of them), and some more chores to be handled. The number of gashes that definitely looked like the work of swords and daggers worried Molly, but she was wise to stitch without questioning.

She darned and cleaned, carefully laundered all the clothes. Mrs. Hudson made _his_ bed and came downstairs to clean the house. Molly began on the lunch. Just after she was done with it, Mrs. Hudson came down to announce that the man had left for a case.

Molly breathed a sigh of relief and Mrs. Hudson enjoyed the meal she had made, judging her cooking to be adequate and her cleaning and darning satisfactory. She needed a little work with laundering and folding, but Mrs. Hudson felt that the trial had gone rather well, and she didn’t worry too much about when the employer found her out. A day had almost gone by, which meant that Mr. Holmes will find out soon enough.

Molly was determined not to get on this man’s bad side. Something told her that he could make life very difficult for her. But she needed the money, and Mrs. Hudson was willing to offer _so much_ should she pass the test. She’d even be able to buy some new shoes.

Molly went upstairs to do a decent job of dusting again, and cleaned the hardwood floors with a mop. She organised the books and papers, and began to look at the messy library with a critical eye. Once Mr. Holmes was aware of her existence, he should have her clean it.

* * *

 

The second day was one of very close shaves. She was aware that he had not returned home after his case from the previous day, and so she stepped with a light foot as she cleaned the upstairs flat. She heard him return and had the foresight to hide, rather fast, in the spare bedroom. The man didn’t seem to care, and didn’t even look around to see the good job of cleaning Molly had done.

Molly was stuck in this spare room for the time being, so she cleaned it. The books here seemed a bit untouched, so she began to organise them. There was a while to lunch, and she was confident in the man’s need to go to the lavatory eventually, so she cleaned. She organised according to subject and date. She stumbled on some rather interesting books which she itched to read: _The Anatomy of Butterflies, A Detailed Instruction on the Upper Body of Man,_ and _The Known Body Parts._ Her employer was an interesting fellow, she noted. Along with all the medical books, he had a variety of books on history and politics, not to mention war and philosophy.

She returned downstairs eventually and started on the lunch. Mrs. Hudson planned dinner and smiled at Molly merrily, impressed by her ability to hold her own.

* * *

 

“I say, Holmes, has Mrs. Hudson cleaned my room?” asked Watson.

“It is no longer your room,” said Sherlock darkly.

“Oh, don’t sulk. But tell me, has she?”

“She’s been going on a bit of a spree of _cleaning._ The other day, the cupboards had all been cleaned and organised. She’s even been shifting around my experiments. I made a particular one on decaying eyes just to test her, and not even a wink on the matter.”

“That’s out of character,” said Watson.

“Mmh, I think it is more to do with the fact that I didn’t let her hire another maid. She’s had to clean, for that reason.”

“And yet, she always struck me as somewhat _lax_ when it came to organising,” said Watson. “I didn’t think she’d have the resolve to organise my library by subject _and_ date.”

Sherlock finally looked up. “That _is_ odd. No matter. I’m sure she just became hopelessly determined, like she does sometimes.”

* * *

 

The third day was the truly difficult one. Not because she was dancing at the edges, but because she knew he had sensed something. He asked Mrs. Hudson why she had organised the upstairs, and then added with a little asperity, that she might have organised his library as well.

Once he was done with lunch, a client came to see him, and Mrs. Hudson let him up. Molly heard them talking and she got snippets of blackmail, death and stuff which involved a lot of men who seemed to be rather angry. From what she gathered, the victim in question appeared to have died to poisoning. She wished she could test the theory, for the _client_ only had the symptoms to give to Mr. Holmes. A theory based on symptoms was hardly ever enough.

It was also the first time she got a glimpse of her employer. He was tall, with impeccable hair. From what she could see, he looked handsome.

Once he was gone, she began to work on his library, cleaning and organising. Mrs. Hudson was pleased, and told her that she felt rather guilty of taking the credit of her work. She added that she was still _impressed_ by how well Molly had hidden herself.

“He doesn’t really _see_ me, Mrs. Hudson. You know how it is for those in service. We are quite invisible,” said Molly sagely.

“Well, good work anyway, dear.”

Molly organised _Mr. Holmes’_ books different. While she had done Dr. Watson’s – Mrs. Hudson had informed her who owned the room previously – by date and subject, Mr Holmes was a different case altogether. He had books on so many bizarre subjects: something on tobacco ash, an interesting one titled _The Theory of the Elements,_ and, obviously, multiple titles on anatomy and chemistry. She decided to organise his shelves according to subject and author, since the man clearly favoured certain authors over the others. She took apart his sheaves of newspapers and stacked them neatly, careful to label the month and year they belonged to. Once she was done, she had a profound sense of satisfaction. She returned home tired, but she had so, _so_ much work left that she stayed up that night.

* * *

 

There was definitely something wrong with Mrs. Hudson.

She had gone ahead and cleaned his library. Every book was in place, if not with a coded sequence for the place. Even the newspapers had been stacked and labelled. It was _bizarre._

Sherlock began to think about how clean the house had been looking lately and wondered if it were not better if he _did_ hire a maid. He’d rather not have Mrs. Hudson on this cleaning spree.

Mrs. Hudson had always been careful not to imbalance his delicate system. Even the previous maids – despite their railing and ranting had never managed to do anything beyond what he had asked of them. And yet, here was everything – clean, and yet in his own order. It was a very disconcerting.

* * *

 

On the fourth day, Mrs. Hudson was beginning to be lulled into a false sense of security. Molly had begun to understand the nature of her employer better and better, and knew that the revelation was coming. Mrs. Hudson was just cheerful about having hidden it for so long so well that she thought it would continue without destabilisation on Mr. Holmes’ side.

Molly knew that organising experiments would take a lot longer and would be overstepping boundaries. However, with the major cleaning finished, she began to take onto the task with a lighter hand, expecting lesser trouble. She was an idiot.

She was cleaning the hall when it happened. She slipped across a puddle of water and gripped the handle of the door for support. Unfortunately, that door was the one which lead to her employer’s chambers.

It opened, almost immediately. She panicked, thinking about how much trouble she could be in, that damned puddle of water that had appeared from nowhere, and the fact that _who_ didn’t _lock_ their room?

She fell into his room and got up, at once, to see a man who was stripped to the chest staring at her like she was a mildly interesting story in the _Strand._

It was the first time she had seen her employer. His first words were monumental:

“And who the devil are you?” he asked calmly. Molly wondered how many women in maid uniforms which he had not known to be employed under him had wandered into his chambers while he was practically naked.

“Molly, sir,” she said, dipping in curtsey. “Molly Hooper.”

“Short for Margaret, I presume,” he sneered.

“Yes,” she said. “Sir,” she added, unable to wrap her head around the man with the lean and rather blush inducing chest talking to her with such informality.

“I have no memory of when I hired you, so I assume Mrs. Hudson did it in secret. I suppose you were the one who organised the shelves?”

“Yes, sir,” said Molly quietly.

“Do speak up, Molly,” he said irritably.

“Yes, sir,” she raised her voice.

“In future, Miss Hooper,” said Mr. Holmes to her darkly. “Do not meddle with the belongings I consider private.”

“I will not, sir,” she said. “But I thought you enjoyed the organisation – erm... well,” she quailed under the look he gave her.

“And how did you deduce that, Miss Hooper?” he asked her acidly.

She swallowed, determined to hold her ground. “You were reading a book called _The Structure of Bones,_ sir,” she said. “There was a bookmark in it.”

“And?” he asked.

“Well, I didn’t put it in the shelves, for I knew you were reading it,” continued Molly doggedly. “However, when I came in today, you had placed it yourself in the correct place.”

She made it a point to look anywhere but his chest.

The man did not say anything for a while.

“Very well,” he said, and his voice was brittle. “You may stay for a while. I suppose we should discuss your wages and other things.”

 “Sir,” said Molly a little breathlessly. “I will give you a minute to – well, to get dressed,” she said, dashing out of the room.

Well no _wonder._ He seemed to categorically _detest_ maids.

* * *

 

The girl had _nerve._

She had walked in on him sleeping – presumably because she had slipped (he could see the bruises in the right places on her) – and told him of her hiring in a completely ridiculous fashion.

He assumed that she had been hiding in his home for two days now, for that would be understandable, since it shouldn’t have taken him more than a day, ideally, to deduce her presence in two hundred and twenty one B. However, she had been a well kept secret for three days, and he suspected that she would have managed to hide out till five.

She was a bit expensive – she had told him what Mrs. Hudson was offering while staring at her shoes, like she could divine something out of them.

She must be embarrassed at having seen him without a shirt on, but Sherlock couldn’t have cared less. He agreed to her price because he got the sense that Mrs. Hudson _liked_ her, but he was furious at his duping. He disliked her on principle – because she had fooled him and because she had had the gumption to organise his things. And because he disliked his maids _a lot._

Angered though he was, he had to admit ( _grudgingly)_ that she was an intelligent girl. She was better than the other maids on this account, and her organisation had worked wonders on his book shelves and kitchen cupboards. However, he was determined to give her as difficult a time as possible, just to see if she could take it.

* * *

 

“Well dear, I suppose the cat it out of the bag, then?” said Mrs. Hudson sympathetically.

“It had to be out today or tomorrow, ma’am,” said Molly, sighing. “Luckily he agreed to everything you offered.”

“He’s a testy man, dear, especially when there’s a new girl in the house. He always gives them a difficult time. You better be careful.”

“I will, Mrs. Hudson,” said Molly obediently. She hesitated. “Ma’am, I am afraid that I have not been completely plain about why I am in London. Or about the amount of work I am doing outside the house.”

Mrs. Hudson frowned and urged her on.

“You see, it is a matter of bettering oneself,” began Molly, taking a deep breath.

* * *

 

Mr. Holmes was a difficult, _difficult_ man.

Molly didn’t know what to make of him. Earlier, when he had not known of her existence, she had managed to go home at a reasonable time and continue with her work. However, now that the man knew all about her, she didn’t return home before nine or ten – and her residence was a little disreputable. She went home armed with a stick.

And then there was the endless bickering. He went at her with a tongue which was forked.

“Molly, _when_ do you plan to clean the bathroom?”

“Molly, _what_ are you doing with my books?”

“Molly, you have to make breakfast, lunch, _and_ dinner.”

And then there was an endless array of things that she was supposed to do outside her purview, which he had thought of at random. She had to clean all the lamps and lights, and have a few of them fixed. She went, armed with her lamps to London, haggling with shop owners for better prices. It was annoying work, but she did it without complaining.

Then she had to clean his sheets, which had also happened at random and which required her attention two hours past her time. Molly almost started crying at the matter.

Mr. Holmes was unfeeling at her would-be tears.

She was not going to give him the satisfaction, she decided. She will not cry, or break, no matter what he threw at her.


	2. She Walks in Rationality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no way to say it without sounding like a helpless fangirl, but CreamoCrop went and gave me a *review*. I have a review from her, the person who's fics GOT me into Sherlolly. Words fail me. 
> 
> As a result, this chapter is a gift to her.

Dr. Watson had come in sometime during the afternoon. Molly went upstairs with some tea.

“And here is the devil herself,” said Mr. Holmes as she walked in. “And what, Miss Hooper, took so long?”

“I’m sorry sir,” said Molly. “I brought up the tea as fast as I could.”

“Leave the girl alone, Holmes,” said Dr. Watson wearily. “I thought you weren’t hiring?”

“She brought herself inside through careful manipulation. Mycroft himself could use her services.”

“Heaven help her then,” said Dr. Watson. Molly shuddered to know what Mr. Holmes’ brother would be like.

“She’s already scared,” said Mr. Holmes. “You can see it on her face.”

Molly felt a stab of annoyance. Under his employment she may be, but she was not someone who was going to be cowed into complete submission. “Pardon me, sir, but anyone would be scared of meeting a man who is supposedly worse than you,” said Molly.

Dr. Watson chuckled. “Miss Hooper, believe me, you have not seen the worse by far.”

“Then I will endeavour to succeed in my ignorance,” said Molly.

“You aren’t normally this cheeky in the mornings, Molly,” said Mr. Holmes, frowning.

Molly sighed. She was irritable and angry, she’d had a late night and she had so many things to do in a day that it was a wonder she was managing at all. “No, sir, I would think not. I find it unprofessional to be cheeky to my employers, but one has to hold their own when one is employed under the rather great and mostly glorious Sherlock Holmes,” said Molly.

“Well, well – don’t we have a sharp little maid,” said Mr. Holmes. “Tell me, what gave you this courage in the morning? Was it your late night, which you spent reading or drinking – I prefer to think reading, for the alternative would require investigation on my part to avoid a disreputable maid.” 

Molly went red. “No, sir.”

“Holmes,” said Dr. Watson warningly.

“Leave the reading to the professionals, Miss Hooper. And attend to your cooking,” said Mr. Holmes.

Molly left the room, almost in tears. However, she did not cry. She looked at him solidly back, and in her mind – had she the leave for healthy dialogue – she told Mr. Holmes just what she thought of his aristocratic behaviour, and how little she needed _his_ validation in any of her work.

The funny thing was – she knew he wasn’t someone who was aristocratic by nature. You could tell this from the fact that he barely had any maids: in households like this, the norm was to have at least three maids and two footmen, along with a housekeeper and a Valet, hopefully. Mr. Holmes got on without any of them, and while the house was a lot dirtier than normal, it was also something that showed that he had a sense of employing himself more than he did others.

He was just aggravated by her almost constantly. This was possibly because she was someone who _cleaned_ his house – for he did not like anyone touching his things, and possibly because he was still stinging from being outsmarted. She knew he helped people from all walks of life – for she had seen him charge next to nothing for those who could not afford the prices of a private detective.

Sorry, _Consulting_ Detective.

He deduced her to pieces daily, but she was intelligent enough to hide her reason for doggedly seeking employment under a man who was so terribly hard to work with. She rubbed off the pencil marks, cleaning herself so thoroughly in the mornings, that she removed all traces of her nightly employment.

Then again, it annoyed her that she had to do the work during the nights.

And then there was her schedule. Everything was twenty times more difficult now that she had a schedule to work around. She came in the morning early – so early that she had time to clean at that ungodly hour. She finished, and left, trotting away as fast as possible. When she returned, she made breakfast. Mrs. Hudson decided to take over the laundry, since that wasn’t her “cup of tea,” as she put it.

Mrs. Hudson would launder, so that reduced one job. And Mrs. Hudson was a darling for covering up all of Molly’s absences. Not that Mr. Holmes would have noticed – he didn’t unless he needed someone to bite at.

And anyway, all her other work was always completed on time and to perfection. Perfection was stretching it – but she did always try her hardest. She didn’t want to give Mr. Holmes the satisfaction of having defeated her.

The more determined she became in this goal, the more difficult he became. Molly liked to believe that he wasn’t an awful man who was vehement and generally horrible. But it became hard to remember when he was acrid with her.

* * *

 

“Molly, dear, I really don’t think you can go on like this,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“Its fine, Mrs. Hudson,” said Molly getting up immediately. She had fallen asleep on the table while the lunch simmered.

“But dear, you’re hardly getting any sleep at all,” clucked Mrs. Hudson.

“I try to get some on the commute.”

“I suppose you take a shared cab?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

“Yes ma’am,” said Molly. “Although, Meena, a girl who does odd jobs sometimes comes with me.”

“Who is she?” asked Mrs. Hudson keenly. “She’s an Indian girl, ma’am. And very friendly and bright. She’s my closest friend here.”

“An _Indian_ girl?” asked Mrs. Hudson. “It would not do, dear!”

“And why not?” frowned Molly.

“Well, I’m not saying that there’s something wrong with Indians, darling, but think of what everyone should _think!”_

“Mrs. Hudson, thankfully, I am pursuing something that is rather unladylike and ostracising as is. I can have the luxury of associating with whomsoever I wish.”

“Well, that is true,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I suppose she knows a lot of the arts that are practices in India? Rather soothing, the concept of meditation, I feel. And I have always made it a point to ask Mr. Holmes of some of the spices from India which help me with my hip. Herbal soothers, they call them.”

“First of all, ma’am, Meena has grown up here in London. She knows as much about herbal spices as I do. Second of all, Mr. Holmes has property in India?”

“Oh, _no_ , dear,” said Mrs. Hudson. “The elder Mr. Holmes. Mycroft Holmes – he’s a government diplomat. He owns a sizeable chunk of – well, many of the colonies that England manages.”

“That’s curious. Does he have property in Africa as well?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“He must be fairly rich.”

“Heaven help us all – yes. Or Mr. Holmes would not be able to afford your employment.”

“But I thought that our Mr. Holmes did not have any property abroad, or any plantation workers.”

“No, but he has a share in his father’s.”

“Well, I suppose I should recognise where the seeds of my development are sown,” said Molly thoughtfully.

“I did never think of it that way,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Although you are right.”

“It isn’t your fault, ma’am,” said Molly. “Aristocrats hardly ever think of what brings their nation to her feet, do they?”

“And who do you think does that, Molly?” asked a cold voice from the door.

Mr. Holmes was standing there, looking as handsome as he ever did.

Molly straightened her back and eyed him warily.

“The prostitutes at Covent Garden and the vegetable vendors on the streets. Well, sir, the women and men below me. The ones who form the working class in industries.”

“Interesting. You would be one of the rare women to think of the economy, Miss Hooper?” asked Mr. Holmes.

“No, sir,” said Molly carefully. “I just like acknowledging my own privilege.”

“That’s a curious argument, especially with what all of the suffragettes are saying. _Women_ aren’t privileged, remember?”

“No, I suppose not,” said Molly. “But then people would say that you aren’t privileged either, considering the position of your brother relative to yours.”

The cold lines on his face told her that she was close to crossing a line.

* * *

 

Her nose had started bleeding rather randomly one day.

She was perfectly fine for a second, and then her nose was bleeding like no tomorrow. Mrs. Hudson was convinced that it was overwork. Molly herself was worried about it, but there was really nothing to be done.

It was when she fainted without preamble that everyone else noticed.

She was trying to return home, and once she had reached the bottom of the stairs at two hundred and twenty one B, she felt the dizziness overcoming her, along with a fit of nausea. She fell, rather pathetically right there.

And Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock Holmes had already gone to bed.

* * *

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” yelled Sherlock. “Why is the house not cleaned yet?”

“Oh dear,” came the woman’s voice. “Is Molly not in yet? I confess, I overslept. I have become a little too used to her cleaning, over the last month.”

“This is precisely what happens when you hire incompetence, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, aggravated. He was in a particularly annoyed mood today. A lot of it had to do with the no-show of his maid.

He had to admit that he was beginning to admire her resilience. Not to mention the rather unexpectedly witty tongue that she had. Her obvious resolve to not be defeated by him was ambitious at first, curious after a while and downright admirable at this point.

Which was why he was disappointed by her not showing up.

“Oh dear!” he heard Mrs. Hudson say. “Molly, are you alright? Molly dear?”

The girl must have gone and done something stupid, he thought.

“Sherlock, please come down,” said Mrs. Hudson, which only made him more aggravated. “I think Molly has fainted.”

Sherlock paused in the middle of whatever he was doing – which was not much. He had just been pacing up and down, waiting for his maid to come and clean. In his dressing gown, as always.

She’d _fainted?_

Goodness.

He clambered downstairs to face a very, _very_ glowering Mrs. Hudson.

“Sherlock Holmes, you come down this instant and fix this!” she screeched.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he said with the patience of an adult trying to explain arithmetic to a blockheaded child. “How is it my fault that the girl continues to read late at night even after having work to do?”

“It is your fault, you imbecile!” said Mrs. Hudson uncharacteristically. “With all of that deduction of yours, couldn’t you see that she is studying at London School of Medicine? She’s been juggling her studies and work, and _you,_ young man, _have not been helping.”_

At this, Sherlock was genuinely stunned.

“Now do something useful and find Dr. Watson!” she yelled.

Sherlock all but scrawled a note to Archie. The telegram would reach Watson soon, hopefully.

Then he focused on the rather fainted female at his stair.

Normally, when women fainted – and he had seen Janine faint, so he had an idea of the concept. Well, when women fainted – they did so because of the sun and they did so because they had been wearing tight corsets. This woman had fainted because she had been worked to the point of exhaustion.

He felt something rather unfamiliar coil in his chest. He was a rude man, a man who often caused a lot of deliberate heartache. Unless he was genuinely close to the person he was causing heartache to – which was rare – he didn’t feel a lot of guilt.

But he had known that no matter how many tantrums he had, how unreasonable he was with other people – he had always known that he wasn’t a slave driver, and he had always known that he wouldn’t drive someone to their death simply due to vehemence. He had been a bully of the worst form to this girl. And while he was many things, he wasn’t an _outright_ bully.

There was something cruel about the whole affair. She was obviously dehydrated, and she hadn’t eaten in a while – or not regularly, anyway. She had not been sleeping, that much was obvious.

Again, he felt guilty.

He picked the girl up and hauled her into Mrs. Hudson’s room. It was rather unceremonious, but he didn’t care a lot.

He wondered where she lived. He wondered if he should have offered her lodgings.

For now, he focused on the girl herself. He hadn’t made too much of an effort to deduce her, but needs must. She seemed to have the countenance of someone who was well educated, but the slight Northern lilt in her tongue meant that she hadn’t grown up in London.

Her father was probably a doctor in a small village. She didn’t seem to have any relatives, and she had clearly saved her inheritance to go to college in London.

All of this could be seen in her accent and knowledge alone.

From her body, he could tell that she was in her early twenties. She obviously had no intention of marrying, given her rather bohemian idea of accomplishment (not unlike _yourself_ a Mycroftesque voice sneered to him). She was friendly, good tempered and resilient. And, obviously, intelligent.

“No, Mr. Holmes,” she muttered. “Put me down.”

“I am afraid you are delirious, Miss Hooper,” said Sherlock.

“I am coming to my senses, Mr. Holmes, and I demand to be put down,” she said. Her voice was soft, her eyes still shut, but she was firm.

He put her down in Mrs. Hudson’s bed. “Please do not do that again,” she said faintly. “The nausea is coming back.”

“Dehydration,” he said succinctly.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, could I ask for a glass of water?”

He obliged. Mrs. Hudson came and clucked her tongue again. “Well, dear, I told you that it was all overwork. Now stay there while I fix up some tea.”

“Miss Hooper, I was unaware of your circumstances.”

She blanched. “Did Mrs. Hudson tell you?”

“Well, yes, Molly – she couldn’t have _not_ told me –”

“And I suppose you want me gone, then?” she asked, her eyes flashing.

“What? I –”

“It’s always the same story,” she said vehemently. “It’s all fine until it’s a woman who is studying medicine.”

“To be fair, it isn’t the most known profession for women.”

“And hence, you want us gone! Strangle the disease before it spreads!” said Molly angrily.

“Now, Miss Hooper. I did not, on any account, say that I wanted you gone. I simply felt that it would be better if we clarified your schedule and worked around it, yes?”

Molly opened her mouth and then shut it again. “That would be unbelievably kind of you,” she said finally. “Although, sir, why do you call me Miss Hooper? Isn’t it customary to call your maid by her Christian name?”

“It gives me authority, Miss Hooper,” he said in his most regal tone and she smiled. “If you are to assert your authority as a female medical practitioner, I suggest you find the language of it.”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “But for now, I am employed by you.”

“Here you go, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson, handing her a cup of tea. Molly took it eagerly, taking deep sips.

“Holmes!” came the loud call of Watson.

“Watson! In here!”

Watson walked in. “What happened?” he asked.

“Dehydration, lack of food, general idiocy in regards to her health.”

“Dear me, Holmes,” said Watson. “Have you worked her to death?”

“Well, how was I to know that she was juggling her medical studies as well?” asked Sherlock indignantly.

“Medical studies?” asked Watson.

“She’s studying medicine.”

“Pathology,” clarified Molly.

“The Chemistry of the body,” said Sherlock. “Well, Molly, you are a rather unique specimen who actually managed to organise my book shelves. I will not be easier on you by virtue of you having fainted from the exhaustion my employment had inflicted on you. However, I will be more lenient regarding your schedule.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Molly gratefully.

“Furthermore, I understand that you are currently lodging rather far from your college –”

“And how did you know that -!” began Molly.

“Somewhere in Cheapside, I should think. You can tell by the amount of change she uses for her shared cab.”

“Holmes –”

“Mr. Holmes, I –”

“Really, dear, Cheapside? Why didn’t you tell me? We could have easily arranged for lodgings...”

“And while I do not mind my maids living in Cheapside or in Covent Garden, I do object to you fainting due to exhaustion because of the long commute and how much you need to study. Therefore, you will be taking Mrs. Hudson’s free room.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Molly weakly. “You coerce me into this.”

“Perhaps not when you are in the prime of your health,” said Sherlock thoughtfully. “But I can take full advantage of your disposition right now.”

Molly looked at him squarely in the eye. “Mr. Holmes,” she said deliberately. “You are a rude and rather barge-my-way-in man.”

“Thank you, Molly, I take pride in that.”

“He really does,” said John.

“But, I will agree because of the sheer convenience of it all.”

“Again, I am happy with your choices.”

“Pish and posh, Mr. Holmes. You simply like having your way,” said Molly. “I shall go fetch my belongings –”

“No need. I already told the homeless network –”

“You haven’t left the room, Holmes!” said Watson.

“I will inform the homeless network presently –”

“Oh, dear,” said Molly.

“And you, Miss Hooper, should be resting.”

* * *

 

Mr. Holmes was a ridiculous man.

Before, he had a cool facade of anger and scathing remarks. Now, the scathing remarks persisted, but the coolness of his anger faded away. He would still get angry and agitated, but about ridiculous things.

Such as right now.

“Molly, _why_ have you put honey in my tea?” he raged.

“Mr. Holmes, I am sorry, but you really, _really_ need a little bit of treatment for that sore throat before it becomes a complete cold,” said Molly as calmly as she could. In truth, the man made her extremely nervous and rather unsure of herself.

“I need _nothing_ of the sort,” he said indignantly. “One would think that you were my mother, the way you go on.”

“I’m fairly certain that your mother did not give you honey with your tea during sore throats, for if she did, you would not be so averse to the idea.”

“Don’t cheek me, Miss Hooper.”

Molly bit her lip and walked away. She did not think he _wouldn’t_ have the tea. And sure enough, when she returned, there was nothing in the cup.

“There is no need to look so smug, Molly,” he told her. “I drank it because I did not want the tea to go waste.”

“Of course, sir,” she said.

And other times, he would become completely out of her hand. He would not stop, and Mrs. Hudson found herself with a wall which was completely decimated by what looked like a longsword. Molly had nothing to say, for she had heard the fit and had been unable to do anything about it.

When he was with Dr. Watson, as always, he was in whatever was his best form. Agitated enough to tackle cases, and impatient enough to do it fast. The distraction of a case always made him a little easier to handle – for he needed quiet moments a lot. When she stumbled in on him during moments like these, she always made it a point to make as little noise as possible.

He would lie in the couch, his fingers steepled together, and eyes shut. Molly would leave the room as fast as possible, avoiding waking him out of his reverie, and going red at how pleasing she thought his form was.

She also had all her classes, unfortunately. She had to work through the week with multiple classes. Luckily, two hundred and twenty one B was not very far from the college, so it made her life so much simpler. Mr. Holmes did not mind divvying up work between herself and Mrs. Hudson so that she could attend all her lectures, and she did not have an issue with her attendance any more. Thankfully, thankfully – she had a home close by, so she could find more time to study.

 It was nice to study in the privacy of her room, even if there was a constant fear of Mr. Holmes barging in and demanding her assistance in an experiment.

Oh, _yes,_ the experiments.

That was another monster to tackle. Sometimes eyeballs, occasionally fingers, very often small animals. Molly assisted because she was probably the first maid that was qualified for the matter.

She did her best to not attach any sentiment in the matter – she knew that Mr. Holmes did not. It was supposed to be hard to be impersonal when you started liking your employer, and Molly wanted to remain impersonal. No employer had ever cared enough to manage around her schedule.

She refused to allow herself to believe that Mr. Holmes had her assist him because he liked her. She was convenient and she was there – that was what the matter was.

* * *

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” called Sherlock as he entered. “Molly!”

Molly stumbled in, and curtseyed briefly.

“Do stop that,” said Sherlock irritated.

“Sorry sir,” said Molly.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Sherlock, continuing to be annoyed.

“I didn’t have lenient employers previously, sir,” said Molly. She paused. “Not that I would call you lenient.”

“I can imagine. Not many employers would be pleased at having a girl who was working towards a medical degree on the side.”

“No, sir. I had to practice a lot of obedience to be allowed the liberty to study to enter college alone,” said Molly. She frowned. “Pardon me, Mr. Holmes. I am not usually so candid around my employers.”

And he was again hit by his guilt, for she had not even found his anger prior to her exhaustion out of place. She had been more scared of his unreasonableness after he found out the issue of her work.

There weren’t a lot of ‘personal’ moments with maids. They weren’t like valets, who spent time with you. Maids were meant to be invisible – the mark of a good maid being the lack of her presence. And Molly was always careful to make herself scarce. She was careful when she melted into the shadows, and careful to obey without too many questions in his experiments.

And yet.

There was a stream of disobedience on a day to day basis that forced him to have his tea with honey. Thankfully, Molly and he did not have a lot of ‘personal’ moments, or he would shudder to think what sort of a nuisance she’d make herself. She’d been working for nearly three months now, and working well. She didn’t skip meals, she had water regularly and she was studying in her free time.

“Molly, why don’t you have any textbooks in your room?” he asked brashly. “I only noticed nearly a hundred notebooks scribbled to the margins.”

Molly went red. “I didn’t have the money for textbooks, sir,” she said carefully. “I borrowed a few of the textbooks from the library and copied them in notebooks.”

“You _copied_ them?” asked Sherlock, thunderstruck. “Some of them are over five hundred pages!”

“Well, I really couldn’t afford them, Mr. Holmes. I did what I needed to do during the holidays.”

“Good God, is that what you did during the nights in the first week?”

“Yes sir,” she said softly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, angry. “I could have bought them!”

“I already owe you a lot, sir, for taking me in,” said Molly solemnly.

“Bollocks,” said Sherlock loudly.

“Sir!” she said.

“Oh, do be quiet, Miss Hooper. You could have told me.”

“Pride is something that does make part of what a personality is, Mr. Holmes,” said Molly. “And I do have dignity. I can simply use the notebooks.”

“Next term –”

“I will no doubt save from my wages and lack of commute during my work with you and buy a set of textbooks.”

Sherlock glared at her. “And where is Mrs. Hudson anyway?” he asked.

“She stepped out with her friend for a play,” said Molly promptly. “They’d bought tickets.”

“And she didn’t tell me?” asked Sherlock, indignant.

“She told you yesterday, sir,” said Molly.

“Well,” hmphed Sherlock. “Anyway, bring me some tea.”

“Right away, Mr. Holmes.”

Molly prepared his tea and brought it up to him.

“Stay, Molly,” he told her when she began to leave.

Molly stopped. She looked at her apron and smoothed it over, and Sherlock felt irritable at her nervousness around him.  

“Do you have a class right now?”

“It’s a Saturday, sir,” she said.

“Well, when do you think you would kill yourself?” he asked.

Molly raised her eyebrows. “Currently, I might die due to overwork.”

He felt a stab in his stomach. “That is not funny, Molly,” said Sherlock sharply.

Molly bit her lip, amused. “Well sir, I might kill myself if I found myself fighting for the lives of others and there was no other way. I might if I found myself hating my person, or if I was desperately unhappy. I might consider it if I found myself despairing, finding no new hope, or if I found myself numb to emotions in a way that makes me desperate.”

Sherlock looked at her. “That is – well, rather particular. I wonder if you have thought about it before?”

Molly’s lips twitched. “Who are you investigating, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

“A woman who worked at a cloth industry,” said Sherlock, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She seems to be in perfect health, however, all her co-workers report her sadness, the situation with her husband; who is a drunkard, and the fact that she had been looking bleak and rather unhappy in the last few days. She is obviously isolated, friendless, and someone who may have been ‘numb to emotions’.”

“You don’t think she killed herself?” she asked.

“The noose is ridiculously loose around her neck and the marks around her neck seem to have been added for effect. Not to mention the fact that there is a very clear small stab wound in her fingers. One which Anderson intelligently calls a ‘hazard of working with cloth.’ Of course, everyone forgets the fact that this woman is neat and precise, hardly ever pricks herself and didn’t even work with the sewing department.”

“May I know the details of her death?”

He handed her a file without looking at her directly.

She flipped through the file, reading carefully. “If I may say so – suicide is not normally something the working class allows itself. Despair is a luxury for the rich, Mr. Holmes. This woman looks like she had been asphyxiated.”

Sherlock looked up.

“It’s a little subtle, but it is there. The marks around her neck have been put for show – she was strangled by a rope, that much is obvious, but there are no bruises on her fingers.”

“That should add to the fact that she hung herself, shouldn’t it?” asked Sherlock. “She didn’t interfere with her own death?”

“There are normally two ways a hanging goes: one is the more comfortable one, in which the neck snaps and the person dies instantly. The other one is a little more prolonged and a lot more painfully. The person in question dies with the lack of air. This is one of the latter – you can tell by the fact that her tongue was purple. Either way, in the second kind of death, it is human nature to struggle against the bonds. Whether you want to live or not has nothing to do with it – it’s instinctual. Lack of oxygen causes it in you. However, as you say – and I would have to see the body myself to check for filaments of the rope in her nails – the hands _were_ by and large, clean. That’s a paradox, and one which needs checking. I would go so far as to say that she was probably tied up and murdered, so that she would not interfere with the rope that was choking her of oxygen.”

Sherlock looked at her blankly, taking in the information like a parched man having water.

Molly seemed to be considering some more information. “However, if she wasn’t restrained, there is a possibility that she was drugged into lethargy. That would explain the stab wound you noticed.”

“I knew Anderson was trying his level best to make us all less intelligent!” said Sherlock, jumping to his feet. “Come on, Miss Hooper, get dressed. We’re going to the morgue.”

“Sir!” said Molly.

“This is no time for idle chit-chat. Call Archie; tell him to send a telegram to Doctor Watson. Molly, _get dressed!”_

Molly left, speedily taking her apron off. Sherlock nodded at her in approval. The girl had some uses beyond cleaning, then. Archie came in, and Sherlock handed him a quick telegram to be sent.

As soon as he reached downstairs, he saw a dressed Molly Hooper. Her day clothes were rather plain, he noted. Simple dress and a simple coat, which was black. “I wonder how you managed your classes earlier, what with the changing and everything.” he said.

“Under the apron, it’s just a black dress, albeit, a bit thin,” said Molly sagely. “I own a black coat with the express purpose of wearing it over the thing. Not very fashionable, I know.”

“No, but I doubt that your university looks at you for your sense of fashion.”

Molly smiled. She was blushing furiously, and it occurred to Sherlock that she had been doing a lot of that around him recently.

He never bothered deducing Molly. He somehow never needed to. Apart from the occasional forceful tea-and-honey, she was pliable, and she didn’t seem to play any games. This was the first time he considered how completely _rare_ that was.

“Miss Hooper, you know what I expect of you, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” she said professionally.

“How good are your hands?” he asked.

“Adequate, I should hope.”

“Are you being modest?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m _so_ glad you are not a simpering idiot,” he said with a manic grin. Molly blushed very, very red. He expected that she wasn’t used to her employers being so candid with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reviews!


	3. Fled is The Music - The Violin Broke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this fic is going out of control. Initially intended for three chapters, now for five and now I'm considering seven. 
> 
> I'd like to address a theme that I use a lot in this fic: the colonisation which Britain was undertaking (or rather, one which it had consolidated already) and the working classes. You'll find that the characters talk about it frequently, but seem mostly indifferent to it. Molly may be troubled, but even the social classes like Meena and Sally don't seem to think about the injustice too much. And even Molly doesn't actively *do* anything about the issues she sees. It's just supposed to give you guys a slightly filled up painting of the time. 
> 
> Anyway, beyond that. 
> 
> Sherlollyfan: here's the update! :D 
> 
> Enjoy!

Molly was confused.

Christmas was coming and she was staring at a letter by her sister which skirted over everything important and asked her to come to her home in New Castle for Christmas.

Molly was in two minds. Thanks to her new lodging and her excellent pay, she could afford to go. However, she really, _really_ did not want to. She had never gotten along with Elizabeth, her mother's perfect daughter. And Lizzie was still annoyed that their father had left all his inheritance to Molly, with very little for Lizzie herself.

Molly knew that father had been trying to finance her education – which was getting by on account of that inheritance alone – but he really ought to have left some of the money to Lizzie. It would have avoided so much of the unnecessary heartache.

She began her letter to Elizabeth, telling her kindly that she would be unable to come for Christmas due to her need to use London's libraries. Lizzie didn't know that Molly had been in service for a year now, with very little luck. She had needed a job, and none of her employers had been sympathetic to her studies and had washed their hands of her as soon as she told them that she was starting school.

She had only just managed to get into London School, and she was doing well with her classes. However, she had another year of medical training to do, after which she would be expected to apprentice in a lower position in a good hospital. Which hospital would be willing to take her was a mystery, however, she persevered.

Despite the fact that she had had a lot of experience while working with Mr. Holmes – and it was a _lot –_ she knew that Scotland Yard would not take a female coroner. Mr. Anderson's views on the matter had been enough to convince her of it.

There had been something of a riot when Mr. Holmes had brought her in the morgue for the first time.

"Holmes, you _cannot_ bring a woman in here!" the man with the grey muttonchops had declared. "I'm terribly sorry, Miss –"

"Shut up, Lestrade, she's a valuable resource. And she's training to be a medical practitioner, so you needn't worry about her feminine sentiments," Mr. Holmes had said rapidly. Molly had followed him with as much speed as her dress allowed her.

Doctor Watson had also eventually come into the picture and had been less scandalised by the whole affair, while Mr. Anderson had become downright furious.

"This is another one of his antics!" he had said, soundly angered.

"Miss Hooper is going to conduct the autopsy that your incapable hands clearly cannot," said Mr. Holmes, and Molly had blushed all over again. She quietly corrected Mr. Holmes and told him that she was simply going to check the fingers for bruises.

However, even so, Mr. Holmes had started to bring her along frequently, where bodies were concerned. She was able to give her opinion, but never allowed to raise the scalpel. Well, one step at a time.

Doctor Watson was probably going to come during Christmas, along with his wife. Molly had heard a lot about the elusive Mrs. Watson and she wanted to meet her out of curiosity. Mrs. Hudson said that they were inviting Inspector Lestrade as well, so that's one more person she would see again.

Well, now that she had decided not to visit Lizzie.

"Molly, I need you to deliver a letter to Lestrade's office!" yelled Mr. Holmes from upstairs.

Molly smoothened her apron and prepared herself. "Coming, sir!"

She clambered upstairs and took the proffered note without complaint. "You know where his office is, I presume?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

She took of her coat and wore her apron, grabbing her hat from the stand. She began to make her way around London, wondering how the Inspector managed without Mr. Holmes. Clearly, he was brilliant. But then again, the Detective Inspector was not bad either.

She imagined what a figure her employer cut against the blue uniformed policemen at Scotland Yard. He was tall, with his positively _regal_ cheekbones. He must drive everyone there up the wall, she thought sagely.

He was a very handsome man.

She almost wished that she had continued to remain invisible in his eyes because then this dichotomy of rather irritating attraction and employer syndrome would _stop._

It wasn't that she was denying what was obviously a liking for the man that had employed her; it was that she was certainly not a romantic heroine in an Austen novel. She was no Fanny Price who could easily marry her benefactors. She was not Elizabeth Bennet, who at least had the same social standing as Mr. Darcy.

She was Molly Hooper. She was a maid, and he was her employer. Not only was it completely impossible in the least romantically anguished way, it was also completely unreciprocated.

She did the sensible thing. She ignored her liking for him and put it away on a shelf. She would deal with that at a later date.

It wasn't that Molly didn't believe in social mobility or the ability of a woman to be equal of her husband. She simply didn't think this sense of equality came naturally, and she knew that this sense of equality will only come to her when she was no longer living under Mr. Holmes' roof as her maid. She may earn her living there, but she was also his financial inferior. She did not need to be reminded of the fact that should they decide to pursue a relationship outside their professional one – and even a platonic one, at that – it would be heartache for both parties.

Mr. Holmes, as her employer, even now felt the urgency to fund her for her textbooks, allowing her to use his library. What would happen when Molly became his friend, and she had to draw a firm line to assert her dignity? What when _his_ dignity was compromised for her? It was a very large and difficult monster to tackle, and one which she had no eagerness to approach. She will avoid the problem altogether by never voicing any of these issues and remain steadfast in her faith that she will eventually forget her liking for Mr. Holmes.

Even once she began to earn her upkeep, she knew that she will be paid considerably lesser than any male physician on the planet. And even _if_ they were equals, eventually, the fact remained that Mr. Holmes seemed to avoid romantic entanglements the way Puritans would avoid theatre. Not only was her case wholly impossible, it was also largely improbable.

She decided to stop ruminating on hypotheticals which would remain just that – hypotheticals. She had reached the Detective's Office, and she walked up the steps to be greeted by a dark skinned young woman, who looked at her with a bored expression.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Letter from Mr. Holmes to Detective Inspector Lestrade," said Molly politely.

"Oh, the Freak's calling again?" asked the woman interestedly. "Are you the chippy that was with him in the morgue then?"

"Sorry?" asked Molly, shocked.

"The girl – the one who managed to solve the case?" prodded the woman. Her accent was interesting. She had clearly been educated, but she was also employing very _colloquial_ words as well.

"Well – I wouldn't say _solve –"_

"I wasn't there, but I heard that you were rather excellent – bamboozled the lot of them, and they all returned wondering what sort of hussy – sorry, woman – Mr. Holmes had employed and how good she was. Don't mind 'em, they speak of every capable woman that way."

"I suppose you go through a lot of that?" asked Molly sympathetically.

"Well, see, I cannot face a lot of it because of my _skin_ colour," she said. "I mean, I'm as educated as the next girl with a secretarial course, but I can't apply for anything more – and I'm only an assistant girl here. Get the lunches and teas and stuff. I cannot _be_ anything more than that. They are in here all the time, demanding their coffee and tea and whatnot else. They don't _see_ me enough to see whether I am capable or not."

"No, I can imagine. I have a friend called Meena, and she's a cleaner in a shop. It's a wonder you got so far, you know. Your colour is rather damning."

"As is your sex," said the woman.

"Well, you are twice damned."

"And you work for the Freak, so you are forgiven."

Molly flinched. "Why do you call him that?" she asked.

"Because he is one. He's brilliant, no doubt, and possibly the only one who listens to my suggestions, but he's also the only one who looks like a case is close to Christmas day."

"I suppose I can concede to that..." Molly said grudgingly.

"Why, do you fancy him?" asked the woman.

"No!" said Molly.

"Good, because that would be ridiculous," said the woman. "You're better off working for Lestrade, that way. He listens to me sometimes – when I am subtle. Otherwise it's a no go."

"Why do you work here, then?" asked Molly.

"Because it's a good job that allows me to be close to what I do really enjoy doing. Solving crimes, I suppose. I don't get any experience, but I have a stomach to feed and two others besides. I cannot _afford_ to think about what I really want to do."

"No, I suppose not. What's your name?" asked Molly.

"Donovan. Sally Donovan," said the woman, her eyes crinkling with smiles. "I'll give that letter to Lestrade." Molly again wondered at the woman's cheek at calling her employer so informally by his name. She imagined calling Mr. Holmes that. Just 'Holmes' or 'Sherlock.'

She shuddered at the thought.

"I say, can I write to you?" asked Sally. "You're an interesting chap. Well – woman. You must be lodging with Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes," said Molly, thrilled at having made another friend in the city. "You can write anytime. Just add your address in so that I can write back."

"And what's your name?" asked Sally.

"Molly. Molly Hooper." She smiled at Sally.

* * *

The month of December was always an unusually difficult one for Sherlock. Everyone was always on about what was going to happen for Christmas, and everyone would always speak about how they were celebrating. This time, Mary had decided that it had been a while since Sherlock had a Christmas party, and she had organised the whole thing with Mrs. Hudson over letters.

Watson's wife was an infuriating oddity. It was a mercy he liked her so much.

Once Molly was home from the shopping, he had to ask her to assist him with one of the experiments he was conducting. It was a wonder the girl was so usefully, for he could tell by the way her face had fallen at her sister's letter that her next of kin was not.

Still, Molly might decide to go home for Christmas, which would just be a pain for him. Mrs. Hudson would refuse to manage Christmas all by herself. If anything, she might leave with Molly, seeing how fond Mrs. Hudson had become of her.

The door opened, and he knew that Molly was home. She had a tendency to be as nondescript as possible. She always failed where he was concerned – he noticed whenever she was back. He rang her bell immediately.

"Coming, sir!" she said.

Once she was up he smiled at her. "Ah, Molly, come and assist me with this experiment."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," she said. "However, I do have a condition."

"Yes?" he asked her distractedly.

"You haven't had your lunch, sir. I would feel a lot more comfortable if you did. After that we can continue with the experiment."

Sherlock looked at her incredulously. The cheeky little minx was trying to bargain wellbeing with him. "Certainly not."

"Well sir, then I object to the experiment. Using chemicals with odours which cause physical problems is as it is unadvisable, but doing so on an empty stomach is a violation of laboratory rules."

"Miss Hooper!" said Sherlock angrily.

"Yes, sir?" she asked politely.

"You cannot coerce your employer this way!"

"You coerced me into living here. A comfortable decision, I may add – however, I can always use the same tactics on you."

"You certainly may not!"

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I could also argue that I am doing so for my own safety. If you recall a little bit of etiquette, it is not considered polite to vomit in front of others."

Why, the girl was positively brazen. "How dare you speak to me about etiquette!" he said in his most aristocratic tone. It had very little effect on her, and he felt like sulking. "You and I both know you are doing so simply to make me eat something."

"Now sir, that's a hypothetical."

He glowered at her.

"I regret the day I hired you, Molly Hooper," he declared. Her lips twitched. She was _amused._

_Amused._

"Well, Mr. Holmes, you should be pleased that you need no longer have that regret: Mrs. Hudson was the one who hired me."

She was going to get into trouble with that tongue of hers.

"Oh, very well," he said irritably. He definitely would not give in with good grace. "Bring the idiotic meal upstairs."

* * *

While Molly cheerfully prepared the meal and Mrs. Hudson delivered it, the doorbell rang. Since it would be unsuitable for a maid to answer it, she climbed upstairs to Mr. Holmes and served him instead. Mrs. Hudson went downstairs to answer the door.

The house was rather ridiculous. In any other house, it would be completely unsuitable for a maid to be serving dinner to her employer. Footmen were made for that sort of thing, or even the housekeepers. But with no male employment, the whole system was simply turned over.

Mrs. Hudson came upstairs with a man of a very tall countenance in tow. "Mr. Holmes is here, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" said Mr. Holmes, angered even further. Molly was glad she had served him, but equally wary of the danger of a flying plate. "Tell him to go away. I'm eating."

"You could say it directly to me, little brother," said the man in dulcet tones.

Mr. Holmes was certainly not having a good day. "Get out!" he said.

Molly made moves towards the door, for she did not want to intrude on what looked like a private reunion. She also still feared the flying plate and was not willing to risk the damage it would do to her.

"Not you!" said the younger Mr. Holmes immediately. "You stay here. It might encourage him to leave early." Molly obliged, but with some trepidation.

"Do keep the domestic out of it," said the elder Mr. Holmes in a bored way. "You have a hard time keeping one, and yet you continue to act like they will all be staying."

"This one will," said Sherlock dismissively.

"I assure you, Mr. Holmes, I intend to stay," said Molly hurriedly.

"Wouldn't it be insubordination for a maid to speak so?" asked the elder Mr. Holmes delicately.

"I suppose so, but I never took this household to be one which follows a lot of conventions."

The man smiled in a sour sort of way. "No, I don't think so either. Well, Sherlock, you finally got one to stay. But how long will she stay with her medical studies?"

Molly opened her mouth and shut it again. What had she been expecting, really?

"And I see she has been getting you to eat, as well. Mummy will be pleased."

Mr. Holmes scowled at his brother. "She did nothing of the sort. Contrary to popular belief, I do eat."

"I'm sure, little brother. Now, I have a case for you. A very suitable distraction, I should think."

"You already bore me to tears," said Mr. Holmes without looking. Molly tried edging away, and she freed herself by sidling out of the door.

"It's best to leave them at it, Molly dear," said Mrs. Hudson to her. "Come on downstairs, help me with that cake that you baked. Wonderful work."

"I actually have a test in a week. I tend to bake when I am worried. It soothes me."

"Goodness, what kind of a modern concept is that?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"You see, Mrs. Hudson," said Molly, taking the deep breath of an educator ready to impart very important wisdom. "It is where I feel rather worried and anxious and I channel it into baking."

"Well, you'd best get on with it," said Mrs. Hudson. "There's far too much to be done. I wonder when the man is going to ever hire a cook."

"Why don't you?" asked Molly.

"I can't transgress twice, dear," said Mrs. Hudson. "He has such a hard time with people as it is."

Molly went downstairs and began to take the cake out, carefully slicing it along with the tarts she had made. They were supposed to be rather good, as she had heard. She wondered whether the elder Mr. Holmes would like a little.

She pulled out a small bag and began to wrap some of the cake in paper. She placed some of the tarts in a paper box. Mr. Holmes began to come down – well, the elder one. She waited at the door.

"So, I suppose you will take it, Sherlock?"

"I will see if I have some time, Mycroft." The little hypocrite! She knew as well as he did that he had the time to spare.

"Good day, then," he said.

"Mr. Holmes!" said Molly loudly. "We just baked a little in the kitchen. I took the liberty of wrapping up some for you."

The look her Mr. Holmes gave her was pure _poison._

"Why, thank you –"

"Molly, sir," she said.

"Miss Hooper to you," fumed her Mr. Holmes.

"And why, Sherlock?" asked the other Mr. Holmes.

"Don't even try, Mycroft. She is _mine."_

Molly was rather offended by this. "Excuse me?" she asked faintly.

"If you come _near_ her –"

"Mr. Holmes!" said Molly, scandalised.

"Molly, don't interfere. Finish your baking and go study for your test."

Molly didn't even care to find out how he knew this. She left in haste, unable to stop herself. The look on the elder Mr. Holmes' face suggested, however, that she had another ally.

* * *

"Tell me, Sherlock, when do you plan to introduce me to your new maid?" asked Mary when he had come over for tea, and to fetch Watson for Mycroft's case.

"Never, Mary, for one does not typically introduce maids."

"You know what I mean."

Sherlock sighed. He felt possessive of Molly Hooper, and he knew why. She was an asset to him and he needed her. She made his work easier and his home cleaner. She cooked and made everything just... _better._

"She has already told me that she is staying for Christmas. You will see her then, I suppose."

"Good," said Mary, satisfied. "I need to meet the girl who's strawberry tarts are 'positively divine' in Mycroft's own words."

Sherlock glared at her, ready to murder Mycroft that very minute.

* * *

Molly's correspondence with Sally Donovan had hit a bit of a dead end. Sally's last letter wanted Molly to come to her house for a Christmas Eve dinner with her family. Since she was engaged for Christmas Day itself, she _should,_ theoretically, be allowed this dinner. However she had already told Mr. Holmes that she planned to work during the holidays.

And then there was Meena. She was alone in the city, and a young, brown skinned girl was suitable prey for many holiday revellers. She didn't live in one of the nicest areas either.

Molly decided to ask Mr. Holmes for permission to go for Christmas Eve night, provided she returned home well in time. She would also ask Sally if she could bring Meena along.

That would sort two birds with the proverbial single stone. Molly felt pleased with herself and began writing Sally a reply.

_Dear Sally,_

_I would be very pleased to come to your home for Christmas Eve dinner – however, I will have to leave for home well in time. We are having a little bit of a party here in Baker Street, and I will be needed from morning itself. Mr. Holmes doesn't employ a lot of staff, so every pair of hands is needed. You must have heard of the get together from Detective Inspector Lestrade._

_However, before you take my reply as a definite yes, let me ask Mr. Holmes whether I can go. I know you scoff at such a concept, but he is my employer, and I do need to clarify the issue with him. And, again, before you rejoice at my reply, I would also like to ask you if you can make room on your table for one more. I have a friend, Meena – the Indian girl whom I spoke of in my last letter. Well, I would like to bring her along: she is alone in the city. Her parents died when she was fifteen, and presently she is living by herself._

_Life goes on in Baker Street, and always interestingly. Happily, I have only one more year of medical studies to complete, so my days in service are numbered. I would miss none of it, apart from maybe working in two hundred and twenty one B, Baker Street. The rest of my employers were impossible, if not ridiculous. And that was when I spent one year in service studying to enter a good medical college. I only started taking my classes while I was in Baker Street, and I was lucky enough to find an employer who is lenient, despite his generally mercurial nature._

_Of course, I know that you don't believe that, but I would nevertheless like to speak good of Mr. Holmes, no matter how much he drives me up a wall. He's a strange man, and one I would never fully understand. At times caring, and at other times, so terribly rude that it is a wonder he is still part of the_ ton. _His being in the_ ton _is rather conditional, I have observed. Apart from a few major parties and balls, I have hardly ever seen him attending society affairs._

 _But no matter what you think of him, I_ know _that he is a good man. Why, only the other day I found myself ordered to buy groceries in the rain. When I raised objections, he was annoyed, but he handed me an umbrella, telling me that I "was more use healthy." It may not seem like a lot, but it does show a more soft side to the abrasive man._

_Well, convincing you of the existence of the kinder part of my employer aside, I will be pleased to see you again. I shall expect a letter soon, and you should expect one from me affirming my arrival at your home._

_Yours, etc._

_Molly Hooper_

Once Molly was done, she put her pen down. She heard the door open and she knew that Mr. Holmes had returned. She decided to ask him at once if she could go.

She stepped out into the hall and found Mr. Holmes putting away his hat. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes."

"Out with whatever you want, Molly Hooper," said Mr. Holmes immediately.

Molly went red and smiled. "I was wondering if I could have the evening of on Christmas Eve," she said hurriedly. "One of my friends has called me for dinner."

"Very well," said Mr. Holmes, and Molly grinned to herself. "But don't look so pleased about it. I hate being the harbinger of happiness."

"You're very kind, Mr. Holmes," said Molly saucily.

"And _please_ do not call me such insulting things," added Mr. Holmes.

Molly went back to her room grinning, and added a little post script:

_PS: Well, Sally, as I said, Mr. Holmes has allowed me to go. You shall not be getting another letter announcing my arrival after all. But do write back!_

She was feeling rather touched by the permission he had granted her. She wondered if she could get him and Mrs. Hudson something for Christmas. Mrs. Hudson was easy – she could buy something nice for her, like a small necklace or a trinket. She had saved a lot of money this term.

Mr. Holmes would be considerably more difficult. She thought of how much he enjoyed experiments and how dearly she would love to get him some good equipment. She knew that was what he would value more than most other things. But she didn't have enough money.

However, there was something she could get him which he would love more than almost anything else. He would _enjoy_ it. Molly wondered if it was a feasible idea. It would cost her nothing.

* * *

Molly was feeling extremely happy. She was done with all her work, and all the prep for tomorrow's party had been prepared. She was happy because Mrs. Hudson's gift was wrapped and waiting in her room with a card. She was happy because Mr. Holmes' present had finally come through.

Now, it was only a matter of giving it to him.

She decided to wear whatever best she had. Sally would be pleased if she did – besides, Molly was a firm believer of respecting your host. It may be a simple setting, but Molly would dress well.

She wore her best, very simple blue gown. It had not cuts and hadn't needed any darning so far, which made it the best. It didn't have the fashionable puffed sleeves or any pretty brocading or lace, but it was a good, sturdy dress. And Molly liked it. She wore it, taking out some of her old face painting tools. She didn't have a lot, but she applied some colour on her lips and a little on her cheeks.

* * *

Sherlock was in a terrible mood.

It was what some would call – _'What_ Molly _would call'_ a voice whispered traitorously – his more mercurial mood. He was ready to explode.

The funny thing was that it was caused by Molly. Sherlock was ruminating on this very darkly, for he knew that it was Philip Anderson's offhand remark about her being his little bitch that had caused him to lose his temper so completely.

He had torn Anderson down like he had never before. He felt angered at his remark, and more so than usual. The problem, he reflected was in Molly's own vulnerability. She was a maid working towards a medical degree, and one who was capable yet gentle. A woman like that should not be allowed to exist: she broke too many preconceived notions.

Hence, she would be forced to face terrible conditions in the real world. The London School of Medicine for Women would not prepare her for the inbuilt tendency of the male species to invalidate a woman. He felt protective of her for this reason – she was admirable and capable, and he wanted to make sure she worked where he could make full use of her. He couldn't do that with the likes of Philip Anderson.

It made him angry that a girl like Molly could cause him so much discomfort. The only other parallel he could think of was Irene Adler, but she was gone. And Molly did not ever cause him discomfort directly, she did so by existing in a world where she could be taken advantage of.

And he'd rather the advantage be taken by him and him alone. She was a resource, he decided.

There was a knock on his door. "Enter," he commanded.

"Please, Mr. Holmes," said the girl who was the source of his current problems. "I was about to leave for my night off. Mrs. Hudson has fallen asleep rather unexpectedly after our day of preparation, therefore I decided to report to you instead."

Sherlock waved her away.

"Are you alright, sir?" she asked gently. Her concern irked him.

He looked at her in a cursory way. She was looking pretty – well, nothing compared to the _ton_ of course, and certainly not pretty enough for him to wax poetic. But she did look different, and it was notable. He had seen her outside her maid's uniform, but she wore very plain clothes even then. Right now, on the other hand, she looked like she had made an effort.

The effort she had put in was _very_ indicative of a young man.

And why shouldn't there be? She was going for an innocent house party, but one which would possibly have a young suitor invited as well. He savagely wondered when she had the time to go gallivanting about town.

"Sir?" she said.

"I see you've got a new suitor, Molly, and you're rather serious about him," began Sherlock.

"Sorry, what?"

"You will be seeing him, I trust, at your party?" he asked her sarcastically.

"Mr. Holmes –" she began, but he didn't give her a chance to defend himself. He got up from his seat, ready to pounce on the woman.

"It's rather obvious, what with the present at the top of your bag – perfectly wrapped, while the others are slapdash, at best. It's for someone important –"

He picked up the present.

"The shade of red echoes your lip colour – either an unconscious association or one that you're deliberately trying to encourage. Whichever the case, Miss Hooper, you leave in hopes to be wooed. The fact that you are serious about this particular beau is evident from the present itself."

He picked up the card, his anger simmering.

"Clearly, trying to compensate for whatever inadequacies you find in your slim body..."

_To Mr. Holmes,_

_Merry Christmas! Thank you for everything._

_Yours,_

_Molly_

He put the present down, looking at her face.

"You always say such horrible things," she said softly. "Always. Always."

And he realised what he had done.

Sherlock had to find a way to fix this problem. He had to find a solution to this new issue she had put in front of him, in her most inconvenient manner. She was looking at him, and just like that, he realised – he had taken advantage of her and in a wrong way.

"I am sorry," he said quietly. _So sorry so sorry so sorry so sorry –_ "Forgive me."

He looked at her face, the one which was watching him with such a mix of feelings.

There were a hundred thousand different ways that this scene with his maid could be called inappropriate. Not only that, but he did not know what to do where the girl was concerned. He had to make sure she knew how sorry he was – how relevant her disappointment was. Nevermind his anger, or the many ways he could interpret his own deductions.

Without thinking about the issue, he kissed her on the cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he said. He wondered why no one had ever kissed her before.

* * *

Once she had left, he opened the box. Inside, instead of sentimental trinkets and other useless drivel was a spleen and a pancreas.

It occurred to him that she might actually be in love with him. That would be inconvenient ( _everything about Molly Hooper is inconvenient and you know it,_ something told him) – but not wholly unwelcome.

One side of him found it good because she was a good resource, and a woman who cares for you is always easier to manipulate. But another part of him knew that whether she loved him or not, she would have helped him anyway. Molly was one of those people: stupidly kind.

His fingers brushed against the note that she had given him, thumb resting on the ' _Yours, Molly.'_

* * *

"Well, Sherlock, these strawberry tarts are quite delicious," said Mary cheerfully. "The host, on the other hand, leaves one wanting."

Sherlock scowled at her. "You are the host here, Mary," he said irritably. "You organised the whole thing."

"Well, you were supposed to. Not your admirable maid."

"Molly did nothing except cook," said Sherlock derisively. "And clean," he added thoughtfully. "She may have been the one to put up the decorations."

"Yes, but she was intelligent enough to have it approved by me first hand," said Mary with a wink. "We corresponded through a middle man. Well, a middle woman. A middle _old_ woman, actually."

Sherlock leaned back on his chair. "My whole staff is revolting against me."

"Your staff consists of two people," said Lestrade, helping himself to another tart.

"You should fire them," John added with a touch of humour.

"Tell me, John, is he looking like he's put on a bit of weight?" asked Mary, with complete mock surprise.

"Why, yes, Mary," said John, his moustache twitching. "As a matter of fact, I saw him being very politely bullied by Miss Hooper the other day."

"Now, isn't that a surprise," said Mary, making wide eyes at Sherlock. Sherlock glared at her, as he was often wont to do.

Sherlock considered the rather sombre silence Molly had maintained ever since her return the other day. She had a happy look in her eye, but she seemed to be wary of him in the way some people were wary of his temper.

What had he done to scare her?

"But jokes apart, Sherlock, she's a good girl. I like her. I hope you don't make her run away."

"I assure you, Mary, if she leaves it will be of her own volition."

Mary was giving him an odd look from the corner of her eye.

* * *

Molly couldn't sleep. The night was dark and quiet. New Year's had already passed and Mr. Holmes had spent it brooding in his bedroom. Molly had tried to have him eat a little, but he had pushed her away with a cold countenance. She wondered why he didn't have another get together, but after his Christmas party, Mr. Holmes did not care for the society of anyone.

One week of January had passed in bitter cold and silence. It was as bad as living in abandoned moors instead of thriving London.

Molly was alone, in her room, and lying in bed. She wished that she had not left.

Well, she wished she had not gone for the Christmas party. Not that the dinner was _not_ fun. She enjoyed herself – Sally's children were adorable, and very enjoyable to spend some time with. Meena was happy at having made another friend, and Molly was pleased she had managed to make such good friends in the city.

When Meena and she had left, they had received so many odd looks, but they had made it home. Mr. Holmes had said nothing to her.

_Mr. Holmes._

He was such a strange man. Her cheek still burned with his kiss, in the most unironic way possible. He had _kissed_ her.

It was the height of impropriety.

It was unbelievably interesting.

It was ridiculously unreachable.

She kept playing it in her head, over and over. Everytime she did, she felt butterflies in her stomach and a very unladylike blush would spread through her face. When she was around him, she was careful to think of _anything_ but the kiss. He would know. He would most certainly know.

He had done the experiment on her Christmas present himself. No assistance required.

Molly felt jittery ever since that day. And right now, she couldn't sleep.

A high, beautiful sound mixed with the quiet night. Molly listened.

Mr. Holmes was not someone who cared for her. She needn't delude herself into believing that. The signs were all there: the easy way in which he walked over her, the way he always used her for experiments.

It was a violin playing. Molly loved the sound of a violin.

Molly wished she could climb into his mind and stay there for a year. Perhaps she would be able to decipher it. But even then, the odds would not be in her favour.

The music was coming from _upstairs._

This realisation had Molly awake. She climbed out of her bed in her nightdress, quickly taking the stairs as quietly as possible.

It was _beautiful._

She did not recognise it, but her untrained ear told her that it was excellently played. She peeped into the room, unwilling to disturb the musician.

Mr. Holmes was playing, and the expression on his face was something that required interpretation by a good artist. Molly wasn't sure if the almighty himself would do a faithful rendering. She said nothing, transfixed by his playing. He was playing so beautifully. Molly wanted to continue watching him forever.

The notes rose and fell, and eventually, the music faded. It made her think of fairies and fantasy lands, of a world which existed somewhere far away.

"Did you enjoy it, Molly?" he asked her, his eyes unfathomable.

She nodded, not trusting herself to say anything.

He looked at her, and again, Molly could not place his expression. She did not come further in the room or leave.

"I'm glad," he said finally. He put the violin down, and Molly felt like something had been left unsaid. Something important.

While he turned his back to her and went into his room, Molly wondered whether the music had been enough for all those unsaid things or whether she was simply reading all the lines which were left in the air too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, do I love the Christmas scene. You'll find that I work it into almost every AU I have written. 
> 
> Anyway, I love reviews!


	4. A Painted Maid in a Painted Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say that I am *loving* the reviews on this. I love you guys, and the fact that someone was excited enough to go "KISS KISS KISS" (looking at you, darthsydious) at this fic is the most flattering review I have ever gotten. 
> 
> Kimberly and Emma: happy you liked it! Here's the update.

Jane Austen would be proud.

Well, she would be proud that Molly had found herself knee deep in a mess with the man who was employing her. Whether it was romantic on his end or not was still something up for debate. Molly, on the other hand, went through the torture of working for the man she seemed to – well, she didn’t know what she seemed to have for this man.

On one hand, he drove her mad. He drove her mad with the way he was temperamental, with the way he always demanded her time, with the way he thought she was an asset or a possession to be protected. He drove her mad with the way he looked at her, with the way his green eyes could change colour. He drove her _mad._

Molly could never allow him to know the extent of her emotions. It would be inappropriate, completely unaccountable – why, after everything Mr. Holmes had done for her!

And yet.

He may be cold, but he could never hide himself from her truly. He may be cruel, but he was also kind. He was too kind, and she knew it. The problem with Mr. Holmes was not that he was an unfeeling man, it was that he valued the idea of not feeling where he felt too much.

Molly couldn’t herself understand the contradiction – but she knew the way one could feel too much. Cursed were the ones, she thought. She wondered why God made people like that – but then she wondered a lot of things about God and whether he made such people with the purpose of a divine order or if he did so because he was trying to make something beautiful.

But that was neither here nor there. January was fast ending, and she had made at least one decision with regards to her relationship with Mr. Holmes. It needed to return to equilibrium. And so, she decided to take on one of the most ambitious tasks in the household, and one which theoretically _could_ lead to her losing her job.

* * *

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” he yelled. “Where are you?”

“Here, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Hudson, walking into the hallway. “Goodness, where have you been?”

He was sure that he looked rather terrible – his eye must have swollen shut by now, not to mention the endless bruises that were possibly becoming visible. Thankfully, nothing broken. “The boxing ring,” said Sherlock. “Where’s Molly?”

Mrs. Hudson bit her lip. “Nevermind the girl, I’m sure she’s about somewhere. I do wish you would be more careful, Mr. Holmes. If not for me, then for the girl’s sake. She worries!”

“If she does so, why isn’t she here?” asked Sherlock irritably.

“I sent her out for some vegetables after she... cleaned. Well, you will see it yourself, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Mrs. Hudson didn’t call him by his Christian name due to propriety. However, once or twice – in times of great disaster, she did call him by his own name. Such as the time she had to tell him that John was engaged to be married.

Sherlock didn’t want to think about what the disaster was.

“What has happened, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked.

Mrs. Hudson didn’t say anything, walking away as if she had given up on the lot of them.

Sherlock frowned to himself. He climbed upstairs, expecting veritable disaster. Perhaps Molly had finally lost her temper at him for his behaviour on Christmas and had destroyed half the house. Perhaps Molly had been caught in the crossfire of an explosive experiment. Perhaps Molly had been killed by a falling bookcase.

However, the upstairs was clean. Well, cleaner than normal, now that Molly handled all his organising and cleaning.

Sherlock frowned.

All the books were in place, every single chair in correct order. Molly had dusted and mopped, and everything was sparkling.

This wasn’t disorienting, for she did do this everyday. The dusting, definitely everyday. The mopping every other day.

Then why was Sherlock feeling so ill at ease?

He looked around, trying to identify the source of his discomfort. All he noticed was that his experiments were in neat little rows.

_His experiments._

_Neat little rows?_

And it occurred to him that Molly had a death wish.

Molly was going to die, there was no doubt about it. It was one thing to go organising his book shelf, quite another to neaten up his experiment. He glared wholeheartedly at the offending organisation.

And then he found himself surprised, for Molly had not actually _organised_ them.

She had cleaned up the area, and she had put all of them in one place, but the Molly-esque organisation was missing. The meticulousness was missing. She didn’t typically just put similar type items in one place: everything had to have a place for Molly.

Then who had done _this?_

The only thing that looked remotely Molly-esque here was the way she had put all the fingers and other body parts in different jars, labelled.

How could this girl have not a single issue putting away body part, but she _hadn’t_ organised his more harmless experiments? Why was there a Holmesian mess here still?

The door downstairs opened, and he knew Molly was home. He was still frowning at all his things. He wondered if Molly had done it or if there had been burglars who cleaned homes and left. The possibility seemed remote. And then Molly _had_ definitely cleaned the kitchen. The regimental style of her cleaning was obvious.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes,” said Molly, coming upstairs.

“Molly...” he said slowly.

“Lunch will be ready in a minute, Mr. Holmes,” she said professionally. Her coolness irked him.

“Molly, what have you done with my experiments?” he asked her.

“Nothing, sir,” she said, all innocence.

“That’s precisely my point. You’ve done nothing, yet something is different.”

“I put all the body parts in jars, Mr. Holmes. That’s about it,” she said, skirting over the topic.

“I _noticed,”_ Sherlock bit out. “But why haven’t you done anything else?”

Molly frowned. “Did you _wish_ me to organise them, sir?” she asked.

“Yes! _No._ Molly, what have you been doing?” he asked, with a groan.

“I just wished to clean the kitchen...” said Molly smiling nervously. “Therefore, I did.”

“I’m aware of _that,”_ snapped Sherlock. “Why _haven’t_ you organised the experiments? It’s completely uncharacteristic of you.”

Molly raised her eyes, and laughed nervously. “I realise that I work well when I feel everything is in place. It helps me think, it helps me categorise, and it especially helps when studying Biology. However, not everyone works that way,” she said. “Chemistry is so much more... temperamental. Not everyone in Chemistry will work with the methods of Biology, isn’t it, Mr. Holmes? Hence, I did not trouble to organise your experiments.”

Sherlock didn’t often find himself at a loss for words.

“I hope you had a good day, Mr. Holmes. I’ll just bring the lunch up.”

* * *

 

Sherlock didn’t _understand_ Molly Hooper.

Rarely had he ever had such a conundrum. The girl went beyond him, and Sherlock hated the feeling of not knowing what someone was to do. Had she been romantically pining for him, she would have tried to control him, reforming the rake that he was. Had she decided to be nothing more than a maid, she ought to have been distant. She just violated all the prescribed boxes and it made him very uncomfortable.

He needed to stay away from the girl. She was causing too much of an effect on him, and what’s more: it wasn’t the effect John had on him.

Molly would scoff at this. She would wonder why he was behaving like a lovesick romantic hero, Byronian in his understanding of his mistress. Molly read a lot of romance, but she didn’t seem to believe that any of it was possible. She particularly hated plotlines which were simply _too ‘_ typical’ to be coming true.

A very rational assessment, Sherlock thought.

And yet, here he was – pathetically a step away from taking daisies and questioning the petals about what Molly Hooper’s motives and emotions were. A daisy might even _know_ what Molly Hooper felt, for he _certainly_ did not.

 _And should I even find out what her emotions are – by the divining daisy,_ he thought to himself, _I would not care to think it very important._

Even so, the problem was niggling at him with obviousity which didn’t make sense.

* * *

 

_Dear Sally,_

_February has come, and Mrs. Hudson and I have found ourselves thinking about what a wonderful household Two Hundred and Twenty One might be should we have a cook. We are notoriously understaffed, and that is a consequence of Mr. Holmes being a difficult man. He does not lack the resources or the capability to hire a cook, and I feel fed up of doing the duties of a cook._

_Mrs. Hudson and I have decided to do something a little ambitious: we are going to speak to Mr. Holmes of the need of one, and convince him to advertise. While Mrs. Hudson was alone he could overrule her, and when I am by myself he can bully me – but Mrs. Hudson and I have decided to stay firm in our need of a cook. It is an opinion that fire cannot melt out of us, we will die with it on the stake._

_Shakespeare aside, how are your children? Is Roger enjoying his work at the factories? Well, I don’t think he would be – him being sixteen and with his life in front of him. I know you are low on money, Sally, but you really ought to let the boy go and travel the world. He will haggle his way through, I am sure of it. As for Vanessa: she can stay with you for now, she is only twelve. You are a little protective of your children, Sally dear._

_I know you wish to see them settled, but the rut of life is not going to be kind on them. Roger will have to work in factories all his life, in conditions which I don’t fancy myself. And I work for Mr. Holmes. It’s a life of danger, Sally – the conditions in factories are very poor and you know it. The next time his wages come through, allow him to save it up and take passage out of this country. Make a sailor of him: he would enjoy it, even if it should cause you heartache. At least on ships his colour will not be against him._

_Well, I better leave. I have to tackle Mr. Holmes sooner or later. Mrs. Hudson and I are preparing our arguments._

_Yours, &c _

_Molly Hooper_

* * *

 

Sherlock grit his teeth in front of the two women who formed his staff.

“ _What_ are you saying, Molly?”

“Now, Mr. Holmes, don’t terrorise the girl. You know very well that I have wanted a cook for a very long time.”

“You didn’t have the courage to say so before, Mrs. Hudson. This is Molly’s doing.”

“So what if it is?” asked Mrs. Hudson indignantly.

Molly decided to pipe in gently: “I do wish to reduce my duties, sir. I am not a good cook. I know you are not miserly, you simply dislike getting used to new staff.”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with your cooking, Molly,” grumbled Sherlock. And there wasn’t! She made perfectly serviceable eggs, and her desserts were quite _good._ “I do not wish to conduct interviews,” he said plaintively.  

“Mr. Holmes,” she said patiently. “You will not _need_ to. Mrs. Hudson and I will see to the matter ourselves. All you need to do is pay for the advertisement. We promise. We will even train the woman ourselves.”

“And what when she requires a kitchen maid?” asked Mr. Holmes irritably.

“We will see to that as well,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Just do what is asked, Sherlock.”

Molly blanched, and Sherlock suspected it was because of Mrs. Hudson’s use of his Christian name. Molly used his title so strictly that she probably did not think of him as anything other than ‘Mr. Holmes.’

“Very well,” said Sherlock irritably. “Get the advertisement out.”

* * *

 

_Dear Meena,_

_I’m glad you are liking your new job, and happier still that you have found a good colleague to work with. He’s a clerk at a British office, and hence, he does have a good job and from whatever you describe – an interesting countenance. Your employer seems nicer, by far, than whomsoever had employed you previously. The man before was positively_ inhumane, _Meena. I am glad you no longer work for him._

_As for me: well, the days have gotten better ever since Margery came to work with us. She has a daughter, Bertha who is a trained kitchen maid, and without Mr. Holmes’ permission, we hired them both. Mr. Holmes was, surprisingly, fairly reasonable in the face of this decision being made without his consent. He said sardonically: “Well, I suppose you two (in reference to myself and Mrs. Hudson) have taken over the household as is. You might as well take the other girl in too – I have become tired of seeing you make the fires in the morning, with the soot getting on all your clothes.”_

_“But sir,” said I, “You yourself said that you did not wish to start the process again in search of a kitchen maid. We have killed two birds with one stone.”_

_“True,” said he. “But I care not how many birds you kill with your stones as long as I don’t have to see the birds and interact with them.”_

_“Mr. Holmes,” I said, with all the wisdom of a woman of sixty. “You are incorrigible.”_

_Of course, Mr. Holmes did not have anything to say to that. I suspect he was more irritable because he was not getting his way and because he did not have a say in the matter at all. I know Mrs. Hudson and I have become a little presumptuous, but the man simply does not know what is to needed to be done where the house is involved. He did enjoy the meals which were made by both Margery and Bertha._

_And while we speak of food: I’d love to meet you sometime, Meena. I would not like to impose, but it would be nice if we could have dinner together._

_Yours,_

_Molly_

* * *

 

“No, Mr. Holmes. I don’t think this is a robbery with unfortunate repercussions,” said Molly finally, looking at the wounds. The morgue was silent, while Anderson was grating his teeth at Molly’s pronouncement.

“What do you think, then, Miss Hooper?” asked Lestrade, watching her carefully. Sherlock noticed how Anderson’s eyes snapped to Lestrade accusingly.

“Sir, do you notice this particular stab?” she asked. She pointed at one stab wound which was deep in the gut. “Unlike the others, it is not harried and sloppy. It is precise: the murderer knew what he was doing. I’d even venture to say that the person who did this had a knowledge of anatomy. But, of course, I’d have to examine it further to say for sure.”

Lestrade was frowning. “Why don’t you?” he asked.

“Sir?” asked Molly, still looking at the body intently.

“Do the post-mortem, Miss Hooper,” said the Lestrade.

“Detective!” snapped Anderson. “How can you –”

“Oh, do be quiet, Philip,” said Lestrade wearily. “You cannot argue that she is not qualified, and you cannot say that she might botch it up. Her opinion _has_ helped, and I would like the trend to continue. In addition – what did Mr. Holmes say about this case? Yes, a three. If she does botch something, it will only be a simple case.”

Anderson was _searing._ Sherlock had never been more pleased.

Molly had turned so red that Sherlock wondered with some cynicism if she was going to burst.

She smiled nervously, putting on an apron and some gloves. As soon as she gripped the scalpel, Sherlock saw a very curious change in her countenance.

* * *

 

His heart was racing.

Interesting.

He would even venture to say that his pupils had probably dilated while watching her. This was a deduction based on the speed of his heart and the way he was feeling generally _pleasant._

By God, she could use a scalpel.

He had never seen a neater post-mortem. She was crisp in every movement, categorising and deducing a different kind of story than what Sherlock normally did. She was calmly finding the story of the patient through the remains of his stomach.

Of course, as soon as she said that the murderer had a knowledge of anatomy he knew who the killer was. He had simply wanted to see her _perform_ just as Lestrade had.

And, as he had expected, Lestrade was watching her with nothing less than pure admiration. It gave Sherlock half a heartburn. It was Anderson that really made him curious. He was looking at Molly with resigned admiration.

Molly finished stitching the man up, turned to them and smiled sunnily. “Well, that’s that!” she said.

* * *

 

“ _Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?”_

Oh, Christ. She was _singing_ again.

“ _Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days o’ lang syne?”_

“Molly, _please._ It’s the middle of March – a good few months away from the New Year. _”_

“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Although I find it strange that you dislike my singing while you are such an accomplished musician.”

“I don’t dislike your singing,” said Sherlock. “I dislike all singing.”

“But why?” she asked. “A fear of sirens?”

“A creature which lures with the sound of its singing is biologically improbable Molly, and you know it.”

Molly was smiling at him like she knew a joke he did not. “That’s a hypothetical, sir. Besides, I’d like to _believe_ that such a creature could exist. It would explain your skill with the violin.”

“Flattery doesn’t suit you, Molly.”

She smiled, face blushing. “Even if you do not prefer flattery, wouldn’t you like to _consider_ how such a creature could exist?”

“But it could not. So what would be the point?” he asked.

“Argue for the sake of arguing, sir. Perhaps the creature herself has an ethereal beauty not because it is _biologically_ that beautiful but because it resides in an area which has certain chemicals which cause something of a delusion among people in that area?”

Sherlock was interested by this theory. “And how would you explain their voices?”

“The delusion would be coupled with very _skilled_ young women who would sing.”

“Oh, please, Molly. No one could be that skilled. I propose another chemical reaction to make the women more sonorous.”

“I have experienced firsthand a very _skilled_ violin player.”

“The violin does half the job,” said Sherlock dismissively. “These women would have to have excellent voices, _excellent_ training and _excellent_ skill. The delusion cannot perform the whole effect.”

“You underestimate the effect of the delusion, Mr. Holmes,” she said with a smile.

Sherlock frowned at her. “Molly, you are a woman of science. Why do you persist in thinking about these impossibilities?”

Molly sighed plaintively. “I don’t know, sir. I like thinking about these things because I’d like to have a little magic in the world, I suppose. I am grateful to the technology and forward thinking that has allowed me to come so far, but I wonder what it would have been like in my village if the commons had survived.”

Sherlock was pensive. “But if you could explain such supposedly ‘magical’ phenomenon, does it not defeat the purpose?”

Molly frowned at him. “If I know _how_ it works does not stop it from being magic. Your deductions are almost magic, yet I know how you do them.”

He supposed that was true. There was a certain magic in seeing Molly dissect a body.

* * *

 

_Dear Molly,_

_I am glad you are working hard in your university, even more so that you are at the top of your class. Father always believed that you were as good as any man._

_I know I have not been kind about your profession, Molly. Perhaps I was envious, or perhaps I felt that it would not amount to much. I still have to see proof for the latter; however, I am willing to concede that Father was not completely senile when he left you his inheritance to study in London. I know I allowed my husband’s decisions to influence my opinion of your studies too much, but a wife is allowed to do so._

_I would like to make amends: I know that living in London is hard, and that you must be practicing a lot of economy to live by yourself. I am happy you found lodging in somewhere like Baker Street (a stroke of luck that the landlady was a friend of a friend!), but I would like it if you came to Newcastle for a stretch of time. I want you to come and see my house, and my husband – and I want you to see the young new Ashford who is going to come into this world by May._

_If it is a boy (and I_ do _hope for one), I intend to name him Thomas – after John’s father. If it happens to be a girl, she shall be called Margaret, after you or possibly Eliza, after mother. John’s heart is set on a girl. He urges you to come to Newcastle just as much as I do, for he feels that I need female company during at least_ some _part of my term._

 _I fear that John does not_ know _how difficult it is to have a girl. He wishes for a girl because he grew up with boys alone, and to him a girl would be a novelty._

_I will spare you the cost of an extra sheet of paper. Do write back with an affirmative as well as a date of your arrival._

_With love,_

_Elizabeth Ashford_

Once again, Molly found herself in a state of confusion over the letter Elizabeth had sent her.

She did not care much for Lizzie’s husband, and even lesser for Lizzie’s idea of where Molly was staying and how she was able to afford it. However, she _did_ care about the little baby that was coming into this world.

Molly was certain that both the parents were capable – no matter what their problems with Molly, they were both loving and kind people. Lizzie would be a good mother, and John a doting father.

She wished to see the child. If Lizzie could make the effort, why couldn’t Molly?

Now, if she _should_ go to Newcastle, there was one very _big_ obstacle in her way.

Mr. Holmes.

“Molly!” he called. “I’d like my clothes ironed!”

“Coming, sir!” said Molly climbing upstairs.

He was sitting in the middle of the sitting room, contemplating life. “I do wonder why you don’t use the bell, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

“It’s distracting,” he said, his eyes shut and fingers pressed together. “Suppose that I was a man who was young, ambitious, and climbing the ladder to success.”

“I would find it wildly improbable, sir,” said Molly. “You do not get along with people.”

He opened his eyes. “It’s a hypothetical, Molly. But I think I will ignore the stupid case for a while – I can think of nothing.”

“Another thing that is wildly improbable,” said Molly with a smile.

“What do you want?” asked Mr. Holmes, his eyes narrowing. “There’s a letter in your pocket, isn’t there?”

Molly blushed. “My sister – she, well. Erm – she lives in Newcastle.”

“I was hoping we were beyond your stammer, Molly,” said Mr. Holmes rolling his eyes.

“She wishes me to come stay for the summer,” Molly blurted out. “University will be closed then...”

Mr. Holmes frowned. “Who’s going to work here? What about the dusting?”

“I’ll hire a replacement, sir...”

Mr. Holmes was frowning more and more. Molly did not like where this was going. “What about the cases? Molly, you _cannot_ expect me to work with Anderson!”

Molly smiled. “Sir, I hope you will manage,” she said. “I’m not looking forward to meeting my brother in law either.”

“Then don’t go!” exclaimed Mr. Holmes, beginning to get agitated. He abandoned his seat, walking up and down rapidly. “Molly, _you must not leave!_ There is no one more capable than you!”

Molly smiled wanly. “My sister is with child, sir. She’s expecting this May or June. I would like to be with her – my Father would want it. I don’t like my brother in law, however. He’s a devout man – a curate, and he does not believe that women ought to be devout either. Well, not in the way I am anyway.”

“I did not take you to be devout.”

“I practice too much familiarity with my God,” she said.

He was frowning at her again, like nothing about her was making sense. She felt self conscious about whatever she had said.

“I will be perfectly candid with you, Miss Hooper,” said Mr. Holmes. “I find it hard to believe in a deity.”

It was Molly’s turn to look at Mr. Holmes like he had something completely absurd and out of question. “Well, what do you believe in?” she asked, surprised.

“Logic,” he said crisply.

“So do I,” said Molly. “They are not exclusive.”

“No, they have been known to coexist before – when people did not know better. When there was still plenty of inexplicable ‘magic’ as you call it. Now, however –” his voice trailed off. “And particularly with you – a woman who is scientific. I find it a paradox that you believe in God.”

“Well, the way I see it, it doesn’t matter,” said Molly, frowning. “I don’t think it matters either way.”

“You think my soul will be saved whether I believe in God or not?” sneered Mr. Holmes.

“No,” said Molly. “I think that it hardly matters to God whether you believe or whether there are souls to be saved. I don’t like being so practical in my religion, and I know that what I am saying right now is possibly heresy. But I feel like God is a scientist. Only someone who applies science would be able to create something like you, Mr. Holmes.”

Mr. Holmes did not say anything, digesting this complete honesty from Molly Hooper’s side.  

“That’s an interesting concept,” he said finally. He was looking at her quizzically, and again, Molly felt self conscious. She stared back, without flinching.

They were having a conversation by themselves, without saying a word. Molly could feel it in her bones. She knew that if she drew away right now, something _terrible_ would happen.

Mr. Holmes was far too close to her. His gaze was boring into her, like he was the deity that he did not believe in.

“Go, Miss Hooper. Write to your sister,” he said finally.

* * *

 

His breathing had hitched.

She had been so close – so terribly, _terribly_ close. He could count the number of freckles on her face – _nineteen_ – see the way her smiling lines would crease, and the way her laughter would betray the complexity which he could not understand.

She was simple. One of the rare people in the world who did not have any qualms about secrets kept. Even her lies were just truths, reworked. She was a doctor who believed in God, a woman who believed in her own privilege, and a girl who was working for her medical degree without telling her sister about the difficulties she endured.

Molly Hooper deserved better than to have her pupils dilate when she looked at him.

* * *

 

Watson was watching him very carefully. Too carefully.

“What, Watson?” he asked irritably.

“So, Molly’s leaving next week.”

“I _know,”_ said Sherlock.

“She’s got a replacement?”

“Girl called Anne. The only thing Molly could have done worse than leaving was to hire someone who had as plain a name as her.”

“So you’re upset with her leaving?”

“ _Yes!”_ said Sherlock. “I cannot stand Anderson. And I have to get used to this new girl.”

“Is that all?”

“What else would it be?”

“Well, I was hoping you’d be a little upset at her leaving.”

“I am, as you can see.”

“Well, a little more _emotionally_ upset.”

Sherlock looked at John with sneering eyes.

“No,” he said dismissively.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like the girl,” said John.

“I do. She’s an asset.”

“Is that all then?”

Sherlock was more and more irritable, the closer Molly’s day of departure came. He opened the door to Two Hundred and Twenty One B, without answering John’s question.

“Mrs. Hudson!” No answer.  

Sherlock was wondering where Mrs. Hudson was. The house seemed unusually quiet.

He didn’t often have a sense of foreboding where an empty house was concerned. He was used to people infiltrating inside the house, no matter how good his locks were. And an unusual silence like this was most definitely infiltrators: Mrs. Hudson and Molly may be quiet creatures, but it was certainly very odd to not hear water bubbling on the stove or Molly reciting her lessons to herself, trying to remember the names of the bones.

Sherlock and Watson shared a look, immediately arming themselves.

There was a tinkle of glass from upstairs. Sherlock and Watson carefully climbed upstairs.

“And where is Mr. Holmes?” asked a gratey voice.

“Well, what’s your business?” asked Molly boredly. He couldn’t see her face. “You don’t seem very friendly,” she sniffed.

“I have a pistol aimed at your face,” said the man in a low voice. “Should you really be worrying about _who_ I am friendly with?”

“Well, yes – Mr. – I’m sorry, what was your name again?” she asked politely.

“O’Sullivan.”

Watson raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Mr. O’Sullivan. I suppose you want to pummel him or something similar?” she asked kindly.

“Well, yes,” he said, confused.

“I would declare that it is an exercise in inadequacy,” said Molly with pomp and air which Mycroft would be proud of. “He is very busy, and he doesn’t care much for pummelling. And, _he’s_ a _spoilt_ man,” she added conspirationally. “Why, only last week, Mrs. Hudson made him chicken – fresh, I tell you – and cooked perfectly. Bertha cooked it herself. Yet, Mr. Holmes did not care for it.”

“Didn’t you?” sniggered Watson.

“Shut up,” hissed Sherlock.

“And _why_ are you telling me this?” asked the angry man.

“Well, _why_ would you want to pummel a man like that?” asked Molly earnestly. “Not worth your time, really, Mr. O’Sullivan. Would you like some tea?”

“No,” he said angrily. “I came because I wanted him to apologise for ruining my brother’s life. Or beat it out of him.”

He could almost _sense_ Molly frowning. “But didn’t your brother kidnap your sister?” she asked.

“The bitch had it coming!” he declared. “Going off, running away with a good for nothing sailor. She caused our mother such a heartburn.”

“Mr. O’Sullivan, are you happily married?” asked Molly.

Sherlock slapped his hand to his forehead.

“No.”

“Wouldn’t you like to be?” she prodded.

_Molly, what are you doing?_

“I s’ppose.”

“Then shouldn’t you allow your sister the same courtesy?” she added.

“I –”

“Why don’t you sit while I make some tea,” said Molly. “We shall talk a little and then you can conclude on whether or not you still want Mr. Holmes’ head.”

Sherlock had had it. He barged in, angry at this man for the way he was extorting Molly. “You,” he said to the man.

“Oh, hello Mr. Holmes,” said Molly cheerfully. “I just made some tea. Mr. O’Sullivan was waiting for you.”

“I know full well _why,_ Molly,” said Sherlock angrily.

“Then do _sit,_ Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Keep your guests occupied. I will make the tea presently.”

This girl was going to be the death of him.

* * *

 

“Interesting maid you have, Holmes,” said Watson unable to stop his laughter.

“Do be quiet, Watson.”

“No, this was the best afternoon of my life. Having tea with a man who initially wanted you dead and talking to him about his sheep farming business back in the village.”

“Good God, you are not going to let me forget this, are you?”

“Not in a million years,” said Watson. “And don’t pretend you won’t miss her.”

Sherlock had nothing to say to that.

* * *

 

Molly was done packing. She had said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, and she had already said goodbye to Margery and Bertha. Bertha had been sorry say goodbye, for Molly had been the one to teach her letters. Now the only person left was Mr. Holmes.

What a shock she had given him the day Mr. O’Sullivan had come. He must have been understandably worried, Molly thought guiltily.

 _No matter,_ she said to herself. _I shall get him a present from Newcastle._

She was feeling very sorry to leave Mr. Holmes, and sorrier still for her replacement, whom Mr. Holmes had instantaneously deemed inadequate. Anne was going to have a difficult time adjusting to Mr. Holmes. Molly hoped that she would persevere just like Molly herself had. Another part of her hoped that she _wouldn’t_ for she didn’t want Mr. Holmes to become fond of another maid.

She went upstairs, intending to say goodbye.

He was playing again.

Mr. Holmes played when he wanted to think, or when he was in a strange mood. Molly knew that he did not have a case recently, hence he must be in a strange mood.

The high, beautiful music reached Molly’s ears and she sighed. She should leave now, she decided. She should leave right now, before she did something quite foolish. She began to turn around when the music stopped.

“Here again, Molly?” he asked.

“I came to say goodbye, sir,” she said softly, turning to face him.

“Come closer,” he ordered. Molly stepped into the room in full light. She looked at her plain clothes self consciously, wondering if she had worn something wrong.

“You look perfectly fine, Molly,” he told her. “I asked you to come _here.”_

Molly looked at him like she was unsure. She was not even sure what her confusion was, but it was very significantly _there._

She walked to him, feeling like she was on a tight rope.

“You look well,” he decided, when she was but a step away from him. “Your sister will be pleased.”

“I doubt it,” said Molly.

“Then why are you going?” he asked her.

 _Because you keep looking at me like that,_ she wanted to say. _Because I cannot stand it._

“Sir, are you alright?” she asked him finally.

“A good question, Miss Hooper,” he said. “I wonder why people ask it.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she tucked a stray strand of brown hair away.

“Leave it,” he ordered. “It looks more becoming.”

“Why do you care?” she asked, and she found herself whispering.

His hand was on her face, his thumb gently going down the side of her cheek. He let free the strand of hair which had been offendingly pushed behind. With his other hand, he gripped her wrist.

“Why are you leaving?” he asked her, bringing her closer with a jerk.

It was the height of impropriety.

“I intend to return,” she told him. She refused to look at his eyes – she absolutely _refused –_

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She looked at him.

There was something alien in his eyes. Something she could not distinguish. They went from grey to green to black entirely – his pupils had dilated.

His lips were coming closer and closer, and Molly panicked. Her panic was rooted in her complete inexperience in kissing. His thumb touched her lips and she felt her mouth dry in anticipation.

He pressed his lips to hers. His hands went into her hair, undoing every perfectly done clip. He was kissing her like a man drowning, and she was the only way to shore. She gasped, and he bit her lip. The sensation was so raw – her lips went a little numb for a minute. Then she was kissing him back, clumsily – she was not half as skilled as him. Their noses bumped and she felt shy and embarrassed by her kissing.

“Do _not,”_ he rasped. “Inexperience does not amount to poor performance.”

“Sorry,” she said breathlessly, not knowing what to think.

He pressed their foreheads together, hands on either side of her face. Molly was breathing deeply, unable to bring her thoughts together. The door downstairs opened, and they heard Mrs. Hudson call: “Hoo-hoo! Molly, I’m home.”

“You’d better leave,” he told her.

Molly nodded, her movements jerky.

And how, she asked herself and Mr. Holmes silently, was she supposed to concentrate on _anything_ after that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Put the people out of their misery, said InMollysWildestDreams. Give them a kiss. 
> 
> Well, I have a penchant for dragging it out a little. It's always a function of putting on the character's clothes and dressing them up in an in-character way before making them do things according to what I think.


	5. To Follow Logic Like a Sinking Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. 
> 
> This, friends, is "less happening between couple and more psychological conflict inside individual chapter." 
> 
> That is English Department for "boring but necessary." I'm sorry, my friend Tingy is betaing and she is almost too psychology department to function. And no, that's not her real name. 
> 
> SPEAKING OF FRIENDS - THELITTLESPARROW IS FINALLY GOING TO BE BACK FROM THE DEAD TODAY AFTER ALL HER EXAMS. THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO HER AS THIS FIC WAS WRITTEN FOR HER. 
> 
> And lastly, yes, I know, I'm quoting Tennyson and I don't actually *like* Tennyson. Bah@Mariana. But then, I liked Ulysses and I have used Wordsworth for the title of the first chapter despite not being very fond of him. 
> 
> DD and Modoko: Thank you! Hope you like this chapter! :D

_I came to say goodbye, sir._

What was she?

_Sir, are you alright?_

Sherlock was going mad in his own head. This wasn’t an entirely new phenomenon but the stimulus which had caused it was a novelty – Molly Hooper. He could feel his mind alternatively trying to categorise the situation and failing very badly.

He tried to remove the episode from his head, but it did not work. He had to find reasons to justify her scent – _bread and flour and sugar and cleaning agents and death –_ the shape of her lips – _small, soft_ – the way her cheeks felt under the pads of his thumb – _rough –_ or even the way she had sighed from the back of her throat. He _couldn’t_ delete these memories any more than he could delete Watson when he nursed him back to health during his nights with enhancers.

_Why do you care?_

But with Watson he had never been _so_ confused. Yes, he had tried to divorce himself of the feelings of fondness he had for Watson but it had not worked. At least Watson had not given him dreams which had him sweating.

_Why do you care?_

What _was_ Molly Hooper? Why was she doing this to _him?_ She could have exercised her charms on any other man and would have been just as successful.

 _No,_ a voice inside him which sounded remarkably like Watson said, _she is awkward around people. You know that._

 _Well, why does she have to be awkward around_ me? He grumbled. With her hair which framed her round face, her small, nervous laughter and her smaller feet which were always cold because she had to go to Newcastle instead of buying a new pair of shoes.

He remembered Irene Adler.

Molly Hooper was _nothing_ like Irene Adler. Molly couldn’t even do pretty properly.

Why had he kissed her?

He had been in a strange mood that day and he knew it. She was leaving – the case had featured a brown haired woman with brown eyes and a small figure. Granted, the woman was very much alive but the possibility left him very cold.

_Why do you care?_

He wished he knew.

* * *

 

For Molly, the majority of the journey had passed in a haze. She hadn’t paid any attention to her beating heart – the reprobate would not stop even if she should wish it. It continued to race, much to the anxiety of Molly and it did so only when her mind wandered over to the memory of Mr. Holmes’ lips without thinking about the problems it was causing Molly.

She was very red while she travelled, and she did so with a young college friend called Sarah. Sarah was also going to Newcastle to visit her family; hence they accompanied each other on a long and rather harrowing journey.

“Are you alright, Margaret?” she asked Molly alarmed at the way her face was in a state of constant blood rush. “Do you have a temperature?”

“No, I am perfectly well,” said Molly attempting a smile.

“Why, you look positively _red.”_

“It must be the heat,” said Molly, waving at the window of the carriage in an explanatory way. “It _is_ May.”

“Spring time, I should say,” frowned Sarah. “Certainly not enough to cause a stroke.”

“Don’t worry, Sarah,” said Molly quickly. “I am sure it is just the heat.”

“You are a strange girl, Margaret,” said Sarah.

And yes, Molly was _quite_ red. However, she did not have the freedom to explain _why_ for fear of being branded in a certain way. She may not care for society enough to stick to feminine norms, but even so – she did not exist in isolation. Her profession would not prosper if she did not live in a way that showed that she was chaste and pure even if she was ambitious.

It was such a delicate rope to balance on.

And throwing any _kind_ of romantic endeavour would disbalance it entirely. If she should even _think_ of marrying Mr. Holmes, there would be outrage. She was his _maid._ Foul play _would_ be suspected and the brunt of the problems caused by these rumours would fall on her. Her _work_ would be affected and the sacrifices she had made for her work were too many to give her the freedom to let her heart decide.

* * *

 

Sherlock smoked his pipe without concern.

“Isn’t it a bit early for that?” asked Watson as he shuffled a few papers together.

“I hate Anne,” said Sherlock savagely.

“You don’t hate Anne,” said Watson without looking at him.

“She tried to put the books in the shelf without the organisation,” said Sherlock, as if he was listing out the most disgusting of bad qualities.

“The absolute harpy,” said Watson in a bored voice.

“Very,” said Sherlock. “What are you doing?”

“Finishing up the story of the _Blue Carbuncle,”_ said Watson. “Interesting tale, wasn’t it?”

“The goose swallowed a gem, Watson. I wonder what your readers find interesting.”

“Why, _you,”_ said Watson as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

“ _Me?”_ asked Sherlock.

“Holmes, you may be highly intelligent in finding your way back to a gem which a goose had swallowed, but you never _do_ understand your personal appeal. As long as you maintain a safe distance from the readers, you become accessible to them: you are a thing of their imagination as much as you are of mine. The young ladies can consider themselves to be the solvers of your coldness and to reform you. The young men can aspire to be you. The old men can think about the old days and how much better they were. You are distanced, yet you are _theirs.”_

Sherlock considered this conundrum. “And what of you?”

“What of me?” asked Watson.

“What is your imagination of me?” spat Sherlock.

“One which knows that you are quite capable of skipping all your meals,” said Watson. “I do not profess to know who you really are, Sherlock. Perhaps my _imagination_ of you is very much off the mark, however, you will have to concede to the fact that I perhaps know you _best.”_

“Perhaps,” said Sherlock thoughtfully. He felt considerably warmer. He hated the feeling squarely.

“What else do you know of me?” asked Sherlock.

“You know that I am somewhat past my complete admiration of you,” said Watson, pinning his papers together. “I will not have kind things to say. I would tell the world of how intolerably selfish you are, of how you go into emotions in the same way some people dive into a freshly baked sponge cake. I know that you do not consider yourself to delve into your emotions that way.”

“I _do_ not delve into my emotions!”

“Your excitement during cases would say otherwise,” said Watson dryly.

“You are a rather annoying fellow,” said Sherlock, disgruntled.

“Thank you,” said Watson. “I must submit these to the _Strand._ Cheerio.”

Watson was not a very smart man, Sherlock knew. Well, certainly not as smart as him – but he excelled in something that Sherlock did not always have. He could read people just as much as Sherlock could manipulate them.

And he was right; people do have certain _imaginations_ of each other which cannot be escaped.

* * *

 

Lizzie’s house was very nicely decorated.                               

 “So, Molly,” said Lizzie with a smile. “How was your journey?”

“Tolerable,” said Molly evenly. “How are _you?_ How is the little one?”

“Kicking,” she sighed. “He doesn’t know his own strength.”

“You know him to be a boy then?” teased Molly.

“I _hope_ for a boy,” said Lizzie with a smile. “I am fairly tired of girls. Perhaps the next one can be a girl, but I want a _boy_ first.”

“Don’t listen to her,” said John kissing his wife on the cheek. “It’s a girl.”

“You both will be excellent parents,” said Molly warmly.

The married couple smiled at each other, and Molly felt an ache in her heart.

 _No,_ she decided. These were luxuries not available to her. Her work was foremost – she had done too much to safeguard it. This wasn’t something that Mr. Holmes could solve or any other man could – she knew for a fact that she would not be allowed the comfort of tenderness. At the same time, she would also be denied the coldness of ambition: she must always, always be careful to walk the careful line between femininity and masculinity. Never too emotional, or she would be called incapable of working dispassionately. Never too cold, for then she will be a cold woman who would be impossible to work under.

And romance was not allowed to those who walked between femininity and masculinity – particularly for those who walked between life and death.

“I will love the child no matter what, however,” said Lizzie.

A heavy handed statement, Molly felt.

* * *

“Mrs. Hudson?” asked the young girl.

“Yes?”

“Bah! Mr. Holmes has left all his clothes about the sitting room and refuses to let me clean them.”

The golden haired girl had _quite_ a temper. She was a rather attractive thing, very much the opposite of whatever Molly was. Her manner was rather direct which was possibly _why_ Molly asked her to be a replacement. She had been _very_ well briefed by Molly on how to make sure Mr. Holmes didn’t lose his temper.

A briefing that Mrs. Hudson would like herself.

She was, perhaps, most qualified to bring Mr. Holmes to calm down. She had taken pride in her ability to gain Sherlock’s trust, and his kindness. But ever since Molly had come to work with her she had noticed that Molly was able to handle the boy in so much a better fashion. While Mrs. Hudson railed and lamented until Mr. Holmes slept and ate, Molly presented logic which he could hardly ever refute. Molly was obedient, yet at the same time careful in stepping boundaries and doing the best for her employer.

Anne was an impatient girl. She liked directness in her employers – she wanted Mr. Holmes to tell her what to do and how to do it. She didn’t take initiative like Molly had. While Molly’s ability to take Mr. Holmes into hand had been gentle but very particular, it had been appreciated for being able to respect Mr. Holmes’ routine while editing it for his well being.

Anne, on the other hand – she was made from different mettle. She was a pretty girl, and well used to suitors, Mrs. Hudson wagered. However, she cared not for boys and men who cared for her – that much was obvious. And she cared lesser for men who were derisive of her abilities. She prided herself on laundry – and she was rather good at it. However, Mr. Holmes was not well known for having a sharp eye in clothes.

And Mr. Holmes _missed_ Molly. He was going into the pattern of living that he had fallen in when Dr. Watson had left, Mrs. Hudson noticed.

Mr. Holmes had started smoking a lot more. He was a lot more irritable, and Mrs. Hudson was having a very difficult time trying to get him to eat a decent meal. Not to mention the fact that he was constantly agitated when Anne was in the same room as him.

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue at the way the boy was carrying on.

Mrs. Hudson missed Molly as well, however she had the sense to know that Molly had a life outside them. And with her sister carrying – why, no one could blame Molly for wanting to spend the holidays elsewhere.

* * *

 

_Dear Meena,_

_As Jane Austen says, ‘a girl likes to be crossed in love now and again’ – and I am happy that you_ are _crossed in love. It is a strange thing to say to a friend who may be suffering anguish due to the love itself, but I think that Rajesh is a very nice man. If you wish to marry him, you_ should _– without a doubt. I rather thought that he was a man of good taste, someone who worked hard and someone who would not leave you lonely._

_You must never run from a good match, no matter the circumstances. I know that you did not want to get married, but it is a healthy companionship. You have to freedom for a partner in your endeavours, and you have found one who would support you. If you are not certain about staying in England after marriage – that is another mountain to climb, I suppose._

_Much as I like you, Meena, I_ do _think that you_ should _leave England for the English. Our snobbish personalities alone will be able to manage a country where it rains so constantly._

 _Talking about being crossed in love: I think I would like to unclasp some going-ons which I have not spoken of to anyone else. I lack friends in London, and in the world. Normally, this would be something I would have taken to the grave – yet I wish to tell_ someone _and verify the justifications of my decisions._

_Mr. Holmes kissed me._

_Not chaste, as perhaps, John Willoughby from Austenian lore would have done. Kissing is an art and an enjoyment that I did not know of I must confess, no matter how wanton I sound._

_I have made the decision to put my career before me. I know that I will have a difficult time in this world if I should allow my softer side to rule me. I have a difficult time as it is._

_I feel so scared, Meena. I feel scared of becoming a woman obsessed with her ambition. I feel scared of whatever else the world can do to destroy me and I feel scared of the blue-green qualities of Mr. Holmes’ eyes. I feel scared that I do not scoff at myself enough to_ not _wax lyrical about Mr. Holmes’ eyes. I am terrified of being alone, yet it is a burden that I must undertake._

_God give me a little patience, I suppose._

_Yours, with affection,_

_Molly Hooper_

* * *

 

“I love Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock looked at Mary.

“Why?” he asked her.

“Because she’s obviously behind your state right now. Sherlock Holmes, coming to play chess with me? Heaven forbid.”

He scowled at Mary.

“And there you go again. You didn’t scowl so much when I teased you about John. I have your rook,” she added.

Sherlock looked at the board. “How is the clinic?”

“Serviceable,” said Mary cheerfully. “We had a woman who had a bad case of ulcers the other day.”

“Spare me the details. Your camel is quite gone, Mary.”

“I used to wonder how my husband had a friend who was perfectly all right with me being a nurse. Now I know that it’s just your type – women in the medical profession.”

“You have other uses,” said Sherlock grudgingly.

“Ah, yes. Shooting and the fact that ‘No one would ever suspect a _woman,_ Watson!’”

“It is a relevant argument,” grumbled Sherlock.

“I am glad you made it,” said Mary with grace. “John never thought I was capable of being a part of your adventures.”

“A mistake most men make,” said Sherlock. “Hence your usefulness.”

“Thank you, Sherlock – for the alliteration and the compliment. Check. Don’t you have any cases right now?”

“One,” said Sherlock, concentrating on getting his king out of a tough corner. “A man who seems to have misplaced his sense of time.”

“Psychology is not your field, Sherlock,” Mary chided.

“The young man and woman who live with him – his son and his wife. Unfortunately, the gentleman in question has turned tyrant in the house, and has decided to marry a woman half his age.”

“Where do you come in?” asked Mary, curious.

“The son’s wife appears to think that there is an intruder in the house who is invisible. A shadow.”

“That’s wonderful!” said Mary happily. “Do make a move, Sherlock,” she added.

He shifted his king without question. “I have a feeling he has been taking enhancer to become _younger.”_

 _“_ Better and better,” said Mary with positive glee. “Checkmate, Sherlock.”

“Tosh,” said Sherlock angrily. “You must have been cheating.”

“And this is why you make a sore loser, Sherlock,” said Mary. “Would you like some help taking this man down?”

“This is why no one plays chess with you, Mary,” said Sherlock. “And no, thank you.”

* * *

 

Molly didn’t know what to say to _any_ of these people.

Elizabeth had taken Molly to a party and Molly was, frankly, at a loss where any of this was concerned. Her interaction with the _ton_ had been minimum over the last two to three years. When her father had been unwell, she had been unable to go for any parties whatsoever. With the lack of a mother there was also a significant problem in grooming daughters to start coming out. Her Father had tried his best but he could only do so much, what with his illness.

Molly disliked the _ton_ a lot. Well, she disliked the concept of the _ton_ a lot. She didn’t care for people who would simper at each other without concern for anyone. She always felt uncomfortable with the fact that she was studying medicine: this alienated her from most people.

“And what do you do, Miss Hooper?” asked Mr. Blakely.

“I am studying, sir,” said Molly politely.

“What, may I ask?” he continued. “English, perhaps?”

“I would hardly need assistance to study my own language,” said Molly with a smile.

“Perhaps not the language, but the _literature?”_ asked Mr. Blakely. “After all, there is some enjoyment in studying the Immortal Bard.”

“Um – perhaps,” said Molly, on unsure ground. She liked reading, but she didn’t do a lot of it. To confess, she had read one play of Shakespeare while reading most romantic nonsense that came her way. And, obviously, the mystery stories of Dr. Watson.

“Well, _what_ do you study, Miss Hooper?”

This was always a turning point. Molly braced herself.

“Medicine,” she said.

“Medicine?” he repeated.

“Medicine,” confirmed Molly.

“A young lady like you?” asked the man.

“Er – Yes,” said Molly blandly, as if anyone could have been studying medicine.

“But why?” he asked.

“Well – erm. Because I would like to,” said Molly simply.

“A bold statement,” said Mr. Blakely.

She really didn’t know what to say. “Only if you interpret it so,” said Molly.

“Perhaps,” he said. He sounded a bit put off. Molly was not surprised.

* * *

 

_Dear Molly,_

_I do love you. But you are quite ridiculous._

_Molly – I don’t ~~prof~~ ~~profss~~ have good English. I cannot speak as well as you. So You will have to excuse my spelling and my ~~thogh~~ thought process. I will do my best to speak my mind. _

_You must not let the world force you to do what you don’t want._

_If you wish for love, then grasp it. Be secretive, I agree. But please – there are ways that this can be done! Look at me. I have decided to marry Rajesh. After years of fighting for my living, I am allowing myself some peace. You must do the same._

_This letter will be short, for I don’t have much to say besides my sadness at your decision. Please ~~recond~~ reconsider. _

_Love,_

_Meena_

* * *

 

Molly wished she could be alone.

All of May had passed and she was dying to return to Baker Street. It was hard to avoid the way Lizzie interrogated her about her living conditions: Lizzie did not yet know that Molly was in service.

Molly spun a few lies and was left alone. Sometimes, John would look at her curiously and Molly would not know what to say. She had until July in this world of Lizzie and John’s – of simple parties and comfort, of happiness and small luxuries. Lizzie was almost coming to the end of her term, and the child was getting restless in her belly.

She wanted to be _alone._

She wanted to live in a house where she was not a dependent, one where she could make her own decisions. She wanted a world without the Mr. Holmes’ of the world, without the Lizzie Ashfords. She wanted to be quite alone.

Molly wondered if she was abnormal in thinking that.

“Lost in thought, Margaret?” said John crisply.

“Considering the wonders of solitude,” said Molly in a rare moment of frankness.

“Wondrous indeed,” said John. “You’re a lonely creature, aren’t you?”

“I prefer – erm - _my_ company,” said Molly. “Not that I dislike the company of others!” she added hurriedly. “I just feel very – well, _uncomfortable –_ around others.”

“And around God?” asked John.

“I am always comfortable around God,” said Molly quietly.

John pursed his lips. “One should always fear God.”

“Well – er. If I could ask – well, - why?” asked Molly. “He has my fate regardless of whether I fear him or not. I prefer to be – well, happy in his company than fearful of it.”

John did not say anything, knowing Molly’s feelings on the matter. He disliked the amount of familiarity Molly had with her God.

“John!” Elizabeth screamed. “John!”

“Elizabeth, what happened?”

Molly ran to her sister.

“My waters broke,” she said, her breathing hitching. “We must leave.”

Molly immediately dashed around the house, calling for a carriage. John helped his wife up. When she returned, she had already put together basic necessities. “Margaret, would you mind keeping the house?”

“Not at all,” said Molly. “Please, send news as soon as possible.”

* * *

 

_MOLLY STOP IT’S A BOY STOP COMING HOME IN AN HOUR STOP_

* * *

 

_Dear Sally,_

_Lizzie has had a boy! I am very much in love with the chubby little creature: he is perfectly adorable. I love the way he puffs up his cheeks, and I adore the way he sleeps like a little bundle of red. My Father would certainly have loved him just as much. My Father would have liked to see the boy – he would have said that he looks like his grandmamma._

_And he quite does, I must say. I can see my mother in him more than I can see ‘Thomas’ – which is John’s Father. But he does look a little like John – he certainly had John’s quiet countenance. I think it is too early to say that. All of us like seeing whatever we choose to see in this blank slate of a human._

_It is a truly beautiful world, Sally. I know that you don’t care for my sentimental nonsense, but I wish to remind you of it every now and then._

_I shall leave now, for I have to attend to my sister. John does not know, but she is suffering from post-partum depression. Nothing uncommon, of course, but one does have to care for her in the right way. And men do not know of it, for they would only wonder what kind of mother would have sadness after birth._

_Either way, I hope you are well and enjoying my rather self-centred letter._

_Yours,_

_Molly_

* * *

 

Why couldn’t Molly come home?

Sherlock was agitated again. He curled up in his sofa, trying not to think about her. It didn’t work to any extent.

He could not stop thinking about the way she would pose absolutely ridiculous hypotheticals to him, ones which had no merit whatsoever. Or her cleaning and organising, studying for her tests and papers – muttering and repeating things that need memorizing.  Or her insights into his cases, or even her truly _off tune_ singing.

It occurred to him that she only had one more year of medical school left. And then it would be Anne all the time.

He couldn’t bear the thought. There had to be a way to keep Molly with him for as long as possible.

“There you are, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“What do you want, Mrs. Hudson?” asked Sherlock.

“Well, I was wondering if you would like to hear the letter Molly just sent me?” said Mrs. Hudson.

“She sent you a letter?” asked Sherlock incredulously.

“Of course! I asked her to write. She sent me one before, but that was when she had just arrived – there wasn’t much in it apart from some of her journey and a little bit about what her sister’s home looked like.”

“She never sent me a letter,” muttered Sherlock mutinously. Of course, it might be considered inappropriate to send your employer your letter. Yet, hadn’t Sherlock shown that he thought of her as more than a maid?

“What’s that, dear?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

“Nothing, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock. “Please – read.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Hudson, sitting down and making herself comfortable. “Right – ‘ _Dear Mrs. Hudson,’_ \- a little bit about her sister’s son. They’re calling him Thomas.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock gritted out.

“‘ _I confess, I do miss Baker Street a lot’ –_ oh, poor dear. Must be a difficult sister if she happens to be missing Baker Street. ‘ _Even Mr. Holmes, despite his many tantrums’._ Oh look, she says you remind her of Thomas – or vice versa, rather.”

“I? Remind her of a little babe?”

“Well, the comparison is hardly inaccurate, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson impatiently. “Now, where were we? Yes. She says she isn’t quite getting along with her brother-in-law. No surprises, I suppose – she told me she didn’t get along with him. She says her sister is now past the birthing blues – a good sign, of course.”

“Does she always write such senseless drivel?” asked Sherlock. He wanted to know why there was no clear mental imbalance in Molly – her employer had _kissed_ her. Wasn’t he worthy of a little romantic anguish?

“She does put in a lot of witty comments in the middle, but those are for my ears alone. She says that she is worried about the number of parties that can exist in society, for there really _should_ be an end to it. It’s making her uncomfortable about her attire, and her sister has not offered to go shopping with her. Unfortunate, I should think.”

“She sounds uncomfortable. Tell her to come back,” ordered Sherlock.

“Tell her yourself, Sherlock,” chided Mrs. Hudson. “Ah, here she’s talking about Baker Street. She says she might come home earlier than normal, for she wishes to leave this world of parties. _‘Dear Mrs. Hudson, I wish to return to London and her busy streets: I miss London and her smoke, I miss my friends, and I miss you. I miss the lack of parties, I miss the excess of bloody murder,’_ – she does sound like you, doesn’t she? ‘ _I wish to return to London for in London, I earn my own keep and I spend my own money on myself. Living with Lizzie is so terribly difficult because she considers me a charity, and one which will never get married. A burden, one could say. In London, I work, and in London, I earn. I miss London for the way it accepts me, unabashedly. I miss London for Mr. Holmes, for he accepted me just as much as London did’_ – there you go, dear: she mentioned you. ‘ _This is not a life for me: parties, children and comfort. I love my sister, but I would be bored out of my mind should I live in this world of the_ ton. _I want to return tomorrow itself, but I will decide on cutting my stay here in Newcastle and write to you with the decision. Yours, Molly.’_

Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock expectantly. “Well, what do you think?”

“I think the woman needs to come home before she writes a rhapsody on London,” said Sherlock.  

“Home?” said Mrs. Hudson. “That’s a heavy word, Mr. Holmes.”

“I’m aware,” said Sherlock evenly.

“Sherlock,” she said gently. “You know the girl cares for you, don’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“Please don’t do anything to her that would cause her hopes to rise senselessly. I care for her as well, Sherlock.”

Sherlock got up, agitated. “I do not intend to hurt her. I like her as much as you like her.”

“But differently, I should say,” said Mrs. Hudson sadly.

“Differently,” Sherlock conceded quietly.

“Which is not... _wrong,”_ said Mrs. Hudson. “But do be careful. Oh, there goes the bell. You have visitors, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock looked outside the window, contemplating Molly Hooper.

“Lost in thought, brother mine?” said Mycroft from the threshold.

“Go away,” said Sherlock, turning away.

“An interesting proposition. One which I am going to ignore,” said Mycroft, examining his nails.

“Of course,” grumbled Sherlock.

“I wonder,” said Mycroft. “Where is Miss Hooper?”

“You know where she is,” said Sherlock.

“I do,” said Mycroft.

“Then why _ask?”_

“I wanted to gauge your reaction,” said Mycroft. “I like Miss Hooper.”

“That seems to be a consensus,”

“I was wondering how much _you_ liked her.”

Sherlock did not say anything. “Why should it matter to you?” he bit out, finally.

“Because much to my dismay, Sherlock – you are very much unlike myself. You cannot separate emotion from your work.”

Sherlock was about to give a savage reply when Mycroft cut him off: “I realise now that this is a different _kind_ of advantage. That is all I will say in the matter.”

To hear this, Sherlock was dumbstruck. It didn’t happen very often.

“Well. I really was hoping for a few more strawberry tarts,” said Mycroft blandly. “If Miss Hooper is not here then really, what is the point?”

If that was not the kind of conflicting statement that caused wars, Sherlock did not know what it was.

* * *

 

Molly stared at a few wild May roses growing beyond the window. She plucked some of their petals, ignoring her company.

Everyone – which meant John and Lizzie – was falling in love with the baby all over again. She had very little time with Thomas ever since Lizzie rose out of post-partum. But Lizzie was coddling her little baby now, revelling in the thing.

Thomas was the only one who didn’t dance with words around her, reflected Molly. Even Molly’s mother had never been able to speak to her with normality. Molly’s father had always spoken to her like she was destined for more.

Elizabeth and Molly _used_ to get along. Until Lizzie was outed in society.

 _No,_ thought Molly. _Lizzie didn’t stop getting along with you as abruptly as that._

Lizzie had started to worry about Molly’s more medical side. Lizzie had wondered how Molly was going to fit into this life of parties and dancing. Lizzie had wanted out from Molly’s and Father’s world. That’s why Lizzie’s outing had been so much more successful than Molly’s: Molly had never put too much energy in hers.

“Hello, little Thomas,” said Lizzie, her face radiant.

Lizzie deserved to be happy. But Molly wondered why happiness was considered such an ultimate – especially a happiness that was dictated by society.

 _Medicine_ made Molly happy. Awkward conversations with the _ton_ didn’t.

She wondered why she had not been so nervous around Mr. Holmes. Well, she had – she wondered how she had gotten her backbone and answered back. Perhaps it was somewhere the realisation that this eccentric man would be her last chance to a normal wage. Perhaps it was the understanding that he would always bully her if she did not stand up to him.

She wished she could have the same realisation with John.

“Molly, could you bring me a glass of water?”

Molly got up, her feet aching. She had insisted on a walk which had been rather long – her shoes were old and pressed into her soles.

Molly absentmindedly picked up a glass of water. As she reached to give the glass to Lizzie, a combination of mistakes made the glass fall: the slippery glass, the carpet which allowed tripping and the shoes, which promptly broke.

The glass of water toppled off, emptying all contents into poor little Thomas. It fell further, shattering on the floor which was _not_ carpeted.

Later, of course, Molly felt grateful that the glass hadn’t shattered on the child.

But at the moment, Lizzie screamed. “ _Molly!”_

“I’m sorry,” gasped Molly, taking a fistful of her dress, trying to wipe Thomas.

“ _Stay away!”_ she screeched. Molly backed away, scared.

“Take Thomas inside, Lizzie,” said John grimly. “We need to clean the glass: it was an expensive set.”

“I’m sorry,” Molly said, tears prickling her eyes. Her face went red. _She had dropped water on a baby!_

“ _You!”_ said Lizzie, clutching Thomas to herself. “You always _ruin_ everything! From my baby to my glass!”

“It was an accident!” said Molly earnestly, crying. “I promise to pay you back!”

“What do you know of money, Molly?” scoffed Lizzie angrily. “You live in Baker Street, you have Father’s inheritance. What have you _not got?_ I have my family – and you will never have that, I can promise you. I will never support you, I can tell you that. You will get no money from my side. You will die looking for work, after the comfortable life you have lived.”

Molly had nothing to say. She wanted to keep silence, she wanted to say something very scathing. She wanted to tell her sister about all the time she had spent in service, about the way her old shoes had broken apart. She wanted to tell her about Mr. Holmes, about the world she lived in when she didn’t live in the _ton._

But she said nothing.

“I will take your leave,” she said quietly, tears still streaming down her face. “I shall take the train tomorrow to London.”

“No, Molly –” began John.

“Good!” said Lizzie firmly.

Molly walked away, worried about the state of the poor baby drenched in cold water. She left worried about the way John had called her ‘Molly.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore reviews.


	6. Look On My London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY RELATIVELY IMP AN: If you see a little reader called Ruiz traumatizing commenters with her interpretations it's my beta (who's awesome) TINGY. WE ARE ALL CALLING HER TINGY FROM NOW ON. In addition, ALL interpretations of characters/plots/style are all completely relevant. Even if you think that I'm a barmy old codger who can't write to save her life. No matter how you interpret characters, I will welcome them, even if I had not intended it that way. Go nuts. 
> 
> I'd also like to add that Tingy has made "Absolute Harpy" a thing. Use it when you're mad at someone for not technically doing anything wrong. 
> 
> AND GUYS - ONE RELEVANT THING. I have a shitstorm of a week ahead where college is concerned, so update is only going to happen next week now. 
> 
> We have a little editing because apparently hospital births weren't common until the 1930s. Thank you friend randomdent. Last chapter has been edited in light of this information (or rather, IS being edited and will be up soon). 
> 
> And this time, for this chapter, we have Ozymandias making a guest appearance in the title. God bless PC Shelley. I love the Shelleys, they were both such crazy kooks.

Molly had always, _always_ been very prone to tears.

One would think that she wouldn’t be – considering the way she handled herself in medicine. But Molly was a leaky faucet at worst, a regular crier at best. The only reason Baker Street had not seen her share of tears was that Baker Street had been one of the rare places where she had been happy.

Molly had taken the train home to London. She cried on the journey, thinking about her sister.

She cried when she thought about Thomas.

She had always loved her family as a something beyond: it was comfortable knowing that no matter what happened in your world outside the people related by blood, you _had_ people related by blood. That no matter how many difficult times Molly fell upon, she may have the option of returning to Lizzie and of Lizzie returning to her.

Elizabeth had removed that, however.

It was a terrible sob story to reflect on, Molly felt. A young girl without a mother and father, alone in the world after having been disowned by her living relations. Practically the kind of story that some very poor romantic authors _had_ written.

And Molly _hated_ being a romantic cliché.

She might as well run away with the circus, she thought savagely. Loneliness was a difficult meal to swallow three times a day, especially since loneliness was a rather... well, selfish.

She disliked being self pitying more than she disliked being a cliché.

Not that... she had a lot of experience in being a romantic cliché.

Oh, this was terrible. It was even more of a cliché that she hadn’t had any experience in being a cliché. Yes, it was true that she had had hardly any conversation with male company that could be considered romantic. She didn’t get along with men – they were never able to understand what she meant. They didn’t like her morbid jokes, or her excessive weepiness, or even her interest in medicine. Men didn’t like _her._

Oh God. Even when she _thought_ it she couldn’t help wonder how she ended up being such a cliché when she had been all along avoiding the clichés.

She thought about Lizzie instead. She thought about the way Lizzie had screamed when Molly had taken the bit of skin from Lizzie’s scraped knee for examination. She thought about the time Molly had scared Lizzie deliberately – it had been a vicious attack on Lizzie, showing her the dissected lizard. She thought about the way Lizzie had screamed and not spoken to her for two weeks.

Lizzie and Molly had not always had a taciturn relationship, but it was always, _always_ one of wariness. Lizzie had started drifting from Molly after that lizard incident, and she had told Mum. Mum had punished Molly by confining her to sewing class for two weeks.  

* * *

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” said Sherlock loudly. “I want something to eat!”

“Dear me, Mr. Holmes,” came her voice from downstairs. “Could you _try_ to ring the bell?”

“It is _tedious!”_ said Sherlock.

“So is _yelling_ from one story above!” came the voice of the housekeeper. “Just stay calm, Mr. Holmes. I will prepare a little tea.”

Sherlock grumbled to himself. He rose out of the sofa, wondering when the tea would deign to make an appearance. He disliked waiting. He disliked a lot of things, bordering to a point where he should probably make sure there was nothing wrong with his faculties, but that was not the point.

 He watched the city as it moved. The way the carriages travelled across the roads, and the whole world seemed oblivious of his very visible _boredom._

He had had a few good cases during the summer, and he had a few irritating cases in the middle as well. But overall, right now, he was _bored._ There was nothing to do, no Molly to assist him with experiments, no John to keep him busy with inane literature and no Mary to baffle him with wit. There wasn’t even a Mycroft to try and give him a few cases.

In short, he was _bored._ He would take George Lestrade over this. Or even _Anderson._

He wondered how many people he could deduce to pieces and how much of a distance radius he had with regards to deduction. That carriage, for instance: rounding on the bend and with a single occupant. She looked rather small, brown haired – possibly brown eyes, if one went on usual inheritance. No _real_ sense of fashion – mostly plain, frumpy clothes.

The carriage stopped in front of Two Hundred and Twenty One. That’s when Sherlock got curious.

One foot out of the door of the carriage – a small hand on the door which looked like it had been used for cutting, rather precisely –

_Molly!_

He thundered down the stairs and stopped just when the door opened to let the small woman in.

“Mr. Holmes!” she said, startled by the way he was standing there.

“Molly!” he said, equally at a loss for words.

“Um – well. I trust – that you are – erm, in good health?” she asked, her eyes wandering.

“Oh, yes,” said Sherlock. “Absolutely. Excellent health – everybody knows the importance of water in health, and I have been keeping myself well hydrated.”

“Good, good,” said Molly, keeping her bag down, her face going red. “That’s – good to hear.”

“Of course, there is the occasional elevated heart rate –”

“Oh, _yes.”_

“And I have been smoking a little too much –”

“Oh, _no.”_

“And I do think that there is a direct correlation to smoking and elevated heart rate, not to mention respiratory problems.”

“Well – um,” said Molly. “I suppose I should – well, I would _study_ it, had I a decent group of subjects.”

“You would need a baseline _,”_ said Sherlock.

“Certainly,” said Molly. At this point, silence filtered in, until Mrs. Hudson – the harbinger of comfort – entered.

“Why, Molly!” she said, holding the tea tray steadily. “I thought you weren’t returning until next week.”

“Well, that was the _plan,”_ said Molly delicately. “But I changed... it.”  

“Why?” asked Sherlock, curious.

“Just – reasons, Mr. Holmes,” said Molly vaguely.

She was hiding something. That was when he noticed the red eyes, the puffed lids and the general _teary-ness_.

Molly had been crying.

A very intense feeling coiled in his stomach, an anger towards the tears and whatever caused  them. He wished she would tell him the _reason_ for such displays of sadness, just so that he could categorise and empirically examine it. After all, prevention was the best cure.

“Now, dear, how was your journey?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

“Rather tiring,” said Molly honestly.

“Mr. Holmes, can I trust you to take the tea upstairs and have it yourself?” asked Mrs. Hudson sternly. “I will make Molly settle down.”

“Why does the tea need to be compromised for that?” grumbled Sherlock, taking the tea. “Very well, Mrs. Hudson – do make sure she is adequately rested. I would rather she was at her optimum as soon as possible, for there is murder to be solved.”

Suddenly, Molly was smiling like no tomorrow.

“What?” he asked, irritable.

“Nothing – it’s just that – well, I missed you, Mr. Holmes!” she burst with a smile. She clearly had forgotten _propriety_ for a moment.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at her, and Sherlock found himself touched by the way she was smiling at him. He _refused_ to smile because of this girl, no matter how happy it would make her –

“I am glad,” he said, and his face twitched. “But please, _do_ get ready, Molly,” he added sardonically (and for his own benefit).

* * *

 

The realisation came a week after she had returned to Baker Street. It wasn’t a blinding flash in the middle of a storm – she had been crying on and off during the nights and settling into London the way a man dying of thirst had water. She was falling in love with London all over again, doing her duties and preparing herself for her second (and last) term of studying medicine.

Oh, the week had gone by smoothly. Anne was continuing to stay, which pleased her and paradoxically upset her. She liked Anne, so she was pleased – and the girl needed a little guiding, regarding suitors, of course. But she also didn’t like the fact that _Mr. Holmes_ had agreed to keep _another_ maid.

They danced around the topic, Mr. Holmes and herself – never saying anything directly. This caused her another significant amount of heartache.

And she had been troubled, happy, and complicating herself for the world while cleaning Mr. Holmes’ books when she stumbled upon the curious fact that had lead to her _stupid_ realisation.

_Oh, God. She was in love._

No, this was _terrible._ This was _absolutely_ horrific. She simply _could not_ be in love. It was completely inexcusable. Of all the absolutely _moronic,_ perfectly _idiotic_ things to do, she had to fall in love with the man who was employing her!

And not only that, she had gone and _properly_ fallen in love with him. Molly could kill someone if given the chance at the moment – she didn’t _doubt_ her ability to make a good murder. Of course, it would also derail her completely, but all those things were just adages to the main problem at hand.

Yes, she _knew_ that she didn’t know enough about love to know that she had fallen _properly_ in love with him. But she knew with a savagery that would be very worrying – that she had genuinely fallen in love with him. With his mercurial temper, with his _stupid_ eyes, with his deductions and his music, and his constantly taking her for granted, _and oh God, she was in love with him._

What had given the whole act away? What had stripped her of her easy denial of any feelings for Mr. Holmes? Molly realised that she felt happy when he had smiled at her.

_Of all the insipid things to do._

The worst part was that she wasn’t quite sure whether he reciprocated. If he didn’t, it would be easy to divorce herself from her feelings eventually. The lack of any _sureness_ made it impossible for her to tell whether he cared for her, and whether the whole situation was _worth_ pursuing. And she knew that it was _not_ worth pursuing, for she was not going to sacrifice her career for this man.

She was furious with herself partly because she had fallen in love and partly because she was very hungry and rather tired. The tea had been small compared to the ravishing hunger she felt in her stomach right now.

Frustration and anger made her cry, for, as said before – she was a born crier.

With tears in her face, she flumped, unceremoniously, on her pillow.

“ _Arrgh,”_ she said to no one in particular.

* * *

 

_Why_ was she crying?

It really was the most curious thing – she had been crying, every now and then during the nights. He had deduced it fairly early, for her eyes were generally more puffy than normal. And Molly had _large_ eyes –

Dangerous stream of thought.

But _why_ was she crying. He had an unbearable urge to drag her into his room and kiss her, to tell her of the most scandalous ways in which he could bring her to pieces, _find_ out why she had been crying –

A _very_ dangerous stream of thought.

Even now, he could barely speak to her. She had almost reverted to when she was trying to hide from him – with her doing her chores while he slept or was away.

God, she cried a lot.

He despised people who cried a lot.

Something must have _really_ upset her.

He _would_ find out. He had already deduced that it was regarding family, that she wanted to resolve the issue, that she did not know how, that she blamed herself –

Oh God, he had _cared_ for her.

Bother.

* * *

 

This was _stupid._ She was not going to cower down just because she had gone and fallen in love with him. She was going to remain resolute – she _refused_ to blush –

“Molly!” said Mr. Holmes.

Oh, bother.

“Well, there goes my life,” said Molly. “I wonder how much it would hurt if I tried to squeeze myself in an oven and die of asphyxiation of carbon poisoning?”

“Molly!” he called again.

She got off her bed, trudging upstairs.

_Alright, Molly. Stand up straight, no smiling. Look at him directly in the eye. Actually, avoid that – his eyes are a pressure point. Look at anything else but his eyes. Avoid his chest as well, I would say. Just – avoid his general physique. Look at his shoes. Shoes are a healthy option –_

Mr. Holmes was standing right in front of her. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for him to be a little farther away – perhaps sitting down... “Ah, there you are. I was wondering if you could take some of my laundry down to Anne –” he began.

“Oh, Anne will stay?” asked Molly, coaching herself to look at his shoes.

“I suppose she may,” said Mr. Holmes with little grace. “She takes good care of clothes, and I think you can stay to clean.” He looked at her directly, but Molly ignored him, steadfastly looking at his shoes.

Molly could not _deny_ the surge of jealousy she felt, knowing that Anne was staying.

“I suppose you can clean, while she minds the clothes. There is enough work in the house for six, I should say – well, that was what Mrs. Hudson said when she convinced me to keep Anne.”

Molly’s heart soared. “Mrs. Hudson convinced you?” she asked, making the mistake of looking at him directly in the eye.

“Why, of course. I would never consider it – but the girl worked for a month. And I managed to get _used_ to her, so that’s saying something.”

_Look away, Molly, look away!_

“Is there any particular reason why you are not looking at me, Molly?” asked Mr. Holmes.

“No, sir,” she denied, shaking her head at his shoes.

“Then why don’t you look at me?” he asked. His shoes were rather close to her shoes, she noted.

“Meekness does not suit you, Molly,” he said. One finger carefully raised her chin upwards _–_ he was farther than she had expected him to be – _thank God_. An arm’s distance between them – well, his arms were ridiculously long. An inch closer and she might have been brazen enough to kiss him. “Quietness, perhaps. Obedience – even lesser. But meekness is most uncharacteristic.”

“Um – right. Of course,” said Molly.

“Miss Hooper,” he said formally. “You needn’t worry about how the incident prior to your departure. It is forgotten. I do not think you want to jeopardise your career.”

“N-No, sir,” she said, her heart fluttering.

She wondered _why_ she _couldn’t_ simply act brazen and kiss him. Something rather calculative was taking place in his eyes, she felt. He was weighing certain decisions and options. After he was done – presuming that he _was_ done – he said:

“I wonder, Miss Hooper – when you intend to tell me the reason for your tears.”

Molly blanched.

Well, nothing really escaped him.

“It is none of your concern, Mr. Holmes,” she said quietly.

“It should be, for you are periodically dehydrating yourself through crying. I’d rather not be the employer who worked his staff to death.”

Molly smiled at the joke.

“Um – I am not _certain_ how to explain it,” she said delicately. “I had a falling out with my family.”

“Ah,” he said.

“My sister,” said Molly. Thinking about it made her uncomfortable – tears started pricking her eyes already, and all she could do was curse her eyes for being faucets. “Well, she – erm,” Molly harmlessly touched a finger to her eye to get rid of a tear – “She does not agree with me in terms of finances and education.”

She paused, realising that if she continued talking about it she might cry in earnest.

“I’m sorry, sir, I tend to cry – a lot.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Mr. Holmes impatiently. He handed her his handkerchief.

Molly took it hesitantly, dabbing her eyes a little.

“Rather feminine, isn’t it?” she asked bitterly.

“Yes. Rather unexpected, like your devoutness.”

“Every girl cries, sir,” said Molly. “No matter how tough she looks – every girl cries.”

He seemed to again be contemplating something beyond.

“The Woman did not,” he said softly.

“Who?” asked Molly politely.

“Nevermind,” he said.

It felt like a stab in her heart. She had only been in love for a week now and she had no positive review on the emotion. She _hated_ being in love. It was a state that should be categorically avoided.

* * *

 

Since her term was yet to start and she was in no mood to begin copying her textbooks out already, Molly was reading some harmless romance. It was rather typical: the poor Pastor’s daughter who fell in love with the rather rich and mysterious stranger that came to the village unexpectedly. The writing style was tolerable and the writer most certainly _male._

Molly had a sixth sense when it came to romances. She could always tell which ones had a female author and which ones were male.

Besides, it was a suitable distraction from Mr. Holmes. She was having a rather relaxing holiday, all things considered.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Mr. Holmes called.

Well, there went that.

She was reading in the kitchen while Bertha and Margery had gone to town for fresh fruits and vegetables. They insisted on buying from the docks themselves, when the produce would come in.

Mrs. Hudson was in her room, having a snooze. She didn’t know when Mr. Holmes would be coming in, so she always made the most of it when he was not in.

“She’s sleeping, Mr. Holmes,” said Molly, too engrossed in her book to go outside and help him with his coats.

“And who, I ask, is to help me with my coat?” asked Mr. Holmes, stepping into the kitchen door.

“You get dressed without a valet, sir, I’m sure you can manage a coat,” said Molly, turning a page.

“Are you ignoring your duties for a romantic novel, Miss Hooper?”

“My new textbooks are not in the updated versions in the libraries, sir,” said Molly idly. “I am whiling away time until I have to rush to copy them.”

“I was hoping you had enough money to buy them this year, Molly,” said Mr. Holmes.

“I did – but then I had to go to Newcastle,” said Molly. “It matters little.”

“You may think so,” said Mr. Holmes. “I can assure you, we of the upper classes find it positively _ghastly.”_

And he was smiling at her again – from ear to ear, like there was some sort of secret both of them were participating in. It made her heart flutter. She squarely ignored her heart.

“Well – I,” Mr. Holmes started. “I do have work to do. Good day, Molly.”

“Yes, of course,” said Molly just as hurriedly.

He walked out of the kitchen.

“Do bring the tea u –”

“I’ll just bring the tea –”

Both of them stopped speaking.

He walked out the door. Molly took a deep breath and shut it, leaning against it, breathing heavily.

Oh, this was _terrible._

* * *

 

He was reduced to leaning against a door, avoiding a woman just because her eyes looked especially beautiful when she smiled.

This was _terrible._

He walked upstairs to his sitting room, contemplating murder. She hadn’t said anything about new books at all – he didn’t like the idea of her working late again, simply copying down things that she possibly already knew.

Why couldn’t Molly just ask him to buy the books for her?

Molly had too much pride...

_No,_ he thought. _She doesn’t want to feel obligated to you. It would ruin – well, whatever the hell it is between you both._

Damn it all.

* * *

 

July finally came. Heat began to grow in London – the smoke from the factories smothered the city, and Molly was reminded of _why_ she had initially disliked London.

London had never been something she had loved – she had had too difficult a year trying to get into a university, and none of her employers had really helped in the process. She had hated the way the city crawled under her skin, the way everyone seemed so much _more_ aware than her.

Now, London reminded her of work that she enjoyed, of the winter and of better times. She had lived in London for two years now, and she had worked for Mr. Holmes for almost a year now.

Mrs. Hudson was in the hallway, supervising Anne as she cleaned all the chandeliers. Molly was mopping some of the hardwood, for it needed doing every once in a while.

The bell rang, and Mrs. Hudson answered the door.

“Is this where I can find Margaret Hooper?” asked a northern voice.

“Yes, who may I ask is calling?”

“John. John Ashford.”

_What?_

“Oh, her sister’s husband?” asked Mrs. Hudson. “Please, do come in, sir –”

John entered, and Molly got up, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “Hello, John,” she said evenly.

“Margaret –” said John, surprised. “Why are you –”

“I work here,” she said, her voice clipped.

“I – well – I didn’t – know –”

“I didn’t tell you,” said Molly.

“Why _not?”_ he asked, finally.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” said Molly. “And I didn’t want Lizzie to think I was asking for finances despite having father’s inheritance.”

“You should have _said_ something,” said John. He looked rather upset.

“I thought it more – _prudent,”_ said Molly carefully. “To not say anything to upset Lizzie. She doesn’t like the fact that our Father favoured my education over her marriage. It was better not to say anything at all.”

“Molly, I think it best if you take Mr. Ashford inside,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Speak to him in the kitchen.”

Molly lead John inside – her mind was in a whirl. She wondered why he had come to see her when he answered her question:

“I came in London for business – I thought I would see you...”

“It is appreciated,” said Molly woodenly.

“Margaret – Molly – I know you might be upset –”

“I was in the wrong,” said Molly, looking at some point beyond John.

“But God would not want you to cut ties from your sister just because of a small mistake,” finished John.

“God – I don’t know what he wants from me, John – but it is not this,” sighed Molly. “He does not want anguish.”

“No,” agreed John. “Which is why I am asking you to come to Newcastle with me. Live in comfort, with us.”

“I would not do that,” said Molly. “John – you’re a self made man. You would know the appeal of building a life for yourself. I love London – I get to work here.”

“Marga – Molly. Sorry, force of habit.” Molly smiled wanly at him. “Molly – why _don’t_ you and Elizabeth get along? I just want to know why.”

Molly shut her eyes. “Lizzie and I have always been very – _turbulent._ Once, when we were young, Lizzie had a little doll. I was around four years old. I wanted to see – well, I wanted to see what she looked like under the dress.”

“Ah,” said John.

“I didn’t find anything that resembled my body. So I cut her up. Just to see if she was wearing some under-clothes. And Lizzie was really angry.”

“I’m sure that’s just one incident –”

“When we grew a little older, Lizzie called me a freak. Told me that I would never find anyone to love me. I was considerably upset, so I asked Father. Father was _very_ angry at Lizzie while Mother was angry at me for telling Father. You can imagine what happened to us as sisters –”

“Margaret, you cannot let these past childhood deeds –”

“Mother passed away, and so Lizzie lost her only supporter. She hated living with us, it was obvious. She and I – we haven’t been... friends since before you married. And then everything involving _Tom –”_

“Who?”

Molly pursed her lips. “Nothing,” she said.

“Molly – what did you –”

“She is hiding your sister’s previous suitor from you,” a crisp voice came from behind.

“Mr. Holmes!” gasped Molly.

John looked at Mr. Holmes, scrutinizing his tall stature, his clothes. “You must be Margaret’s employer?” he said, pulling out his arm for a handshake.

“You must be Molly’s brother-in-law,” said Mr. Holmes acidly.

John had nothing to say to Mr. Holmes, so he looked at her. “Well, Margaret -?” asked John, raising his eyes at her.

Molly took a deep breath. “When Lizzie was twenty-two, she thought one of her suitors cared more for me than he did for her. It was nonsense, obviously – but she did tell Tom – the man in question – to pick. Tom did the wise thing and chose neither, telling her that he didn’t care for either of us enough to manage Lizzie’s presumption. I was, once again, in Lizzie’s bad books. Father died in a year, you came in another six months after this, and Lizzie was married around six months after Father died. I didn’t speak to Lizzie after that. I came to London to study, eventually, and got entered into University. I started working for Mr. Holmes around a year back –”

“She hasn’t mentioned that the man was obviously of a considerably higher financial background than you, Mr. Ashford, that he _had_ cared for Molly but Molly had not reciprocated at all, and that Lizzie had suffered heartbreak over the man –”

“ _Mr. Holmes!”_ yelled Molly.

Mr. Holmes stopped in the middle of his tirade.

“This is our matter,” said Molly coldly.

Mr. Holmes bowed sardonically. “Your leave, Miss Hooper,” he added. Molly had never been angrier.

“John,” said Molly slowly. “Lizzie loves you. I know that – she has never asked me not to argue with someone specifically, and she did so when I met you. She was simply heartbroken at the time, desperate because she felt that for some reason her blooming period would be over and she would have no prospects.”

John did not look directly at Molly.

“God does not want us to fight,” he said finally. Molly breathed a sigh of relief. “Marg – Molly. I know that whatever happened was not your fault. If anything, Lizzie was more riled by the way Mr. Blakely had been spreading rumours of your unsuitability –”

“Oh, that man,” said Molly.

“Why, doesn’t it bother you?” asked John, surprised.

“No,” said Molly. “One gets used to derogatory comments.”

“I suppose Elizabeth was upset because of that.”

“She probably didn’t like me ruining her name in society again,” said Molly. “It doesn’t matter. One reason or the other. It was a question of the proverbial _shoe_ dropping.”

John looked away again. “Which reminds me,” he started. “I bought you something. I hope it fits.”

Molly frowned. John took out a box from his valise. “Here,” he said.

Molly opened it, to find sturdy, well made, and highly serviceable shoes.

“I noticed how worn your old ones were,” said the man apologetically.

Molly could have cried.

“I –”

“Yes, I know,” said John.

“You’re a good man, John,” said Molly.

“I hope I am,” said John. “But one can never aspire.”

Molly’s smile was something between affection and understanding. “I think it doesn’t matter whether you aspire or not, John. But we will always disagree on this.”

“Your world is very different, Molly,” he said.

“But I am happy here,” she said. “Tell Lizzie I miss her.”

“Are you sure you don’t need her to know your circumstances?” asked John.

“No, I have caused her enough heartache. Would you like to stay for a little tea? We can have it in the kitchen...”

“No, thank you, Molly,” said John. “Whenever I come to London, I will visit you – but not today. I have a little work to do.”

“Well, it was nice of you to come, John.”

* * *

 

Molly saw John off after he had a small animated discussion with Mrs. Hudson. Anne finished her work with the chandelier and was sent off, at once, to deliver some letters by Mr. Holmes. Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue at the way Anne rushed and then went inside, deciding to take a small break before she thought of getting the silver polished. Once they were gone (and Molly’s duties partly done), Molly squared her shoulders.

Time to take the dragon by the scales and rip his tongue out.

_I will kill the man, the little hell-beast. How dare he? Damn him!_

Partly shocked at her own ability to swear, and generally pleased that she _was_ that angry (it had a little more effect if she should be _properly_ angry).

“Mr. Holmes!” she said.

“There you are, Molly – have you seen the absolutely filthy state of my bath –”

“How _dare_ you?” she asked.

“How dare I what?” he said quizzically.

“How could you say such a thing to my brother in law!” she said, her voice reaching higher octaves.

“Do try not to screech, Molly.”

“And why _not,_ Mr. Holmes?” asked Molly. “There’s only Mrs. Hudson, and I’d wager she’s used to people barging into your chambers to screech at you.”

“Is that _any_ way to speak to your employer?”

“Oh, _tosh,”_ said Molly. “ _Damn_ you!”

His eyes swivelled over her as if she was another aberration in her room. She was tired of feeling like he was picking her to pieces because she didn’t belong. She was tired of the way he looked at her like he _had_ picked her to pieces already.

“If you _must_ know,” he breathed, coming closer to her. Molly stepped back. “I was trying to protect you. That man had to know the truth about his sister, not to mention _you_ needed to face the truth about your sister. You _allow_ her to walk over you, think that you deserve it because of her _very_ transient emotion for a man who was _obviously_ unworthy!”

Molly stepped back, again. The man didn’t have a sense of personal space, she was very much against the wall.

“And _you,_ Molly Hooper. You’re _naive._ You care for people to the point of _idiocy._ You know that your sister uses you as a measuring stick _while_ feeling inferior to you. You, with your eyes and your smile and you absolutely heartwarming ‘shouldn’t everyone love, Mr. O’Sullivan’? You’re going to be eaten by the world and spit out, still alive. You ask too many questions, Molly, and you _encroach_ too much on territories.”

“Why do you care?” asked Molly. There was a curious feeling of _déjà vu_. Last time the wall wasn’t behind her, was there? No. Well, this could end in a _very_ different way, certainly.

“There’s one of them,” said Mr. Holmes through gritted teeth. “One of your questions –”

“Well, _why_ do you?” she asked, and she seemed to be whispering. Oh, _God –_ why was she whispering? “You who do not care for what is obvious to anyone else – how much I regard you, Mr. Holmes –”

“I _abhor_ you calling me that,” he cut her off.

And then his arms were on her wrists, keeping them away from interfering with what was going to happen next. Mr. Holmes kissed her – _oh, why were her senses going haywire? They really_ ought _to get used to the very arbitrary way Mr. Holmes decided when to kiss her._ She could feel the way his lips pressed, sucked on her, the way his arms continued to grip her wrists despite knowing that she was not going to put up a protest, the way his curls were brushing across her forehead –

And he stopped. His eyes were inscrutable all over again, and Molly could have _screamed_ with frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to review! :D


	7. All Be As Is Now, Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, there was a lot of "screaming with frustration" from last chapter. *scratches head* I wonder why. 
> 
> Can I just say that InMollysWildestDreams and TheLittleSparrow literally decided to spam me with dramatic sobs filled with Hindi music backgrounds, while spouting out Sherlock dialogues to convey the oh-so-horrible DEPTHS of their despair due to a lack of an update? 
> 
> My God, they have badgered me and badgered me since Wednesday, even though they knew that this was being betaed. IT WAS ABSURD. THOSE TWO ARE RABID. 
> 
> Talking about betas, Tingy has outdone herself this time cause her "identity has been compromised" and she's disappeared, only to reappear as a crazy cat lady shaking her fist at unruly reviewers and commenters. BUT WE LOVE HER STILL BECAUSE I'VE BECOME REALLY DEPENDENT ON HER AND ALSO THIS CHAPTER WAS SO DICEY AND SHE CLEANED IT. 
> 
> Also, just a little confession: I don't *do* sex scenes. I'm really sorry, but it's going to be poorly written if I do, and I'd rather not have that. 
> 
> Chapter dedicated to mychakk cause reviews are awesome from that end. 
> 
> UNTIL NEXT WEEK, FRIENDS.

She was looking at him like the world had ended.

In one sense, it had. He had always scoffed at the idea that worlds could end when lovers met, and he had a long standing anger against the Immortal Bard for promoting such ideas. But right now, Shakespeare was laughing at him in his grave and Sherlock could tell.

_Damn Shakespeare. Damn Molly. Damn Irene Adler. Damn it all._

She stopped looking at him, but her breathing continued to be hitched. She leaned against him, and he left her wrists.

“What a mess we have found ourselves in,” she said, finally.

“Entirely your fault,” said Sherlock, without touching her, but acutely aware of her forehead touching his chest.

“I didn’t _ask_ you to kiss me, _either_ time, Mr. Holmes,” said Molly.

“You didn’t _resist_ either,” said Sherlock.

Molly backed away from him, staring into his eyes. “I had the sense to not encourage the emotions I already felt, Mr. Holmes!” she said indignantly. “You were the one constantly losing control.”

“Are you saying we were better off dancing around emotions?” he demanded.

“Yes! _No._ I don’t _know,”_ she cried.

This was not the time to be thinking how wonderful it would be to kiss her again.

She leaned against the wall now.                                                                  

“What are we to do?” she whispered. He could see what was going through her head. He could see the number of employment opportunities she was considering, how difficult it would be to get another job and how awful it would be to get over the feelings that she had blatantly fallen into.

She would leave, because in this world, she was forced to be pragmatic. He wondered what kind of person she would have been had she not been tied by her gender, her profession and most of all – her emotions.

The situation which he was considering was unavailable to them. He had to convince Molly to stay, and he had to do so without making it sound like nothing more than anguish.

“The experience... wasn’t – entirely – well, unpleasurable,” said Sherlock, finally.

He wasn’t lying.

To tell the truth, he didn’t know what he was doing, telling her that he had enjoyed it. He didn’t know whether it was to keep her in Baker Street or if it was for his own personal reasons. He’d rather not think about the possibilities.

Molly raised his eyebrows at him.

“You _have_ kissed a girl before, Mr. Holmes?” she said.

“I have,” he said. “It did not feel – like this.”

She was curious, he could tell.

“It was a lot more – well, analytical. At one point, The Woman had pressed her tongue in my mouth. But it was so – well, calculated. I didn’t know that kissing could be so much more – well, more.”

She blinked.

“Mr. Holmes?” she said tentatively. “Are you at a loss for words?”

He glared at her. “It doesn’t happen very often,” he snapped. “Don’t get used to it.”

Molly bit her lip in amusement. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said without thinking.

“What?” she asked.

“Bite your lips,” he gritted out. “It makes my life so much harder.”

Molly was smiling again. “Oh, this is _terrible,”_ she said. She pressed her forehead against his chest again. This time, Sherlock allowed himself to be more responsive. He wrapped his arms around her, very uncomfortable and in _highly_ unfamiliar ground.

And then she was reaching for him again, her lips found his.

_God help me._

The way her lips pressed into his, unconsciously making him hard with desire. He angled himself away, deciding not to press upon her just how deep they had found themselves. Then again, there was a very real possibility that she would not be able to tell. She was inexperienced.

“This is awful, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered against his lips.

“ _Why_ would you continue to call me that?” he asked her roughly, pressing her against the wall again, kissing her in an almost punishing way. She squeaked at the back of her throat.

“I – can’t -,” she breathed. “Call you anything else.”

“Sherlock would be a start,” he said sarcastically.

“Oh, come on, Mr. Holmes. You are employing me. There is nothing but disaster ahead.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Molly,” said Sherlock. He pushed her behind. “You, are an idiot,” he said, kissing her again on the lips, briefly. “You have a scenario where the whole _world_ is against you, don’t you? Your femininity, your profession, why, even your work. I would have you know that affairs between maids and employers are incandescently common. Half the Lords of the House of Lords wouldn’t exist had there not been such affairs. You are allowing yourself to feel victimized: not entirely your fault, you’ve been conditioned to think that way. But maybe you should stop thinking about just than that and think beyond -” Her eyes widened at him.

“Besides, to me, my work is most important,” he added.

“Well, it is to me as well,” she said, finally. “You must know that.”

“I – that... is _true?”_

Molly didn’t care for anything else anymore. She knew that her family had (mostly) deserted her, that her work was the reason why it had happened. She didn’t care for a boring life any more than he did, she was dedicated, loyal, worked well – he _had_ had intercourse before, but it was never the same with prostitutes as it was with someone who would allow you to catalogue the experience entirely. Molly would be perfectly adequate for him –

“Why are you so surprised?” she huffed.

“ _Stars,_ hide my fires,” said Sherlock to himself. She raised his eyebrows at him. “It’s a rare thing to meet a woman of the same temperament,” he informed her. “Don’t let it get to your head,” he added, when she grinned at him. “Molly, it occurs to me that we should – allow ourselves to keep this secret,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he said. Molly was smiling amusedly at him.

“Come, come, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Mockery does not suit you.”

He looked at her with no expression. “It does. I do it to Watson all the time,” he deadpanned.

“You’re not... _serious?”_ she said.

“Very much so,” he said.

“But – continuing with – this _behaviour –”_

“Molly, I will remind you that by any definition, _yes,_ you are stranded in a society where you will be denied love. If you do get love, it will be at the cost of your job. In this society, I will be denied love but because I will never find anyone compatible with my needs – the last one who _was_ compatible with my needs turned out to be male and is now happily married. With me, I will allow you the freedom to pursue your career without sacrificing on your emotional life. The only catch – we will have to maintain the secret.”

“Well – what if someone – well, _finds out?”_ she asked, alarmed.

“I will promise not to jeopardise your career that way. Besides, we can maintain the charade for a year. After which, we go our own ways. What is that saying? Enjoy it while you can, because you won’t get the opportunity again.”

“Are you – telling me – to _sow_ my wild oats?” she asked, incredulous.

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Why – _yes.”_

“And what if we fall in love?” she demanded.

He looked at her with complete scepticism. “I have been reliably informed that it is _not_ possible in my case.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Molly. “You are absolutely _insane.”_

“Do think about it, Molly.”

“And what do you get out of it?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“What do I get out of it?” he challenged.

“Yes?” she said, without lowering her eyes.

“I confess, it would be an interesting experiment,” he said, finally. “Besides being able to experience physical pleasures without needing to pay for them, I would also have a very able helper alongside me, someone who’s knowledge of the anatomy is something I rely on very heavily.”

“ _Without_ needing to _pay_ for them?” asked Molly incredulously.

“Would you _like_ me to have an attachment to you, Molly?” he asked.

“Well, _no,”_ she said, flabbergasted.

“Then?” he asked.

“You –” she paused. “I don’t – I’m not going to dignify this with a response. Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

“Miss Hooper,” he said with a smile, as she blanched at him, walking away.

* * *

 

_The nerve._

Molly tossed in bed.

 _How dare he?_ She asked herself. She couldn’t _believe_ him. How could he – how could he present something so _preposterous_ to her?

How could she even consider accepting?

He was right, everyone knew about relationships between maids and employers.

 _But_ still!

Oh, God. She turned in bed again; ready to burst into another tirade.

_You know you won’t ever have the ability to find someone to share passion with._

Molly had known about intercourse for a lot longer than Lizzie had. Anatomy had taught her so much, and the more analytical books that she had managed to grasp by hook or by crook had just taught her so much more. It had made her interested, it had made her curious. She had wondered what her husband would have done on their first night together, and what _she_ would have done.

But she had closed the door to those possibilities when she decided on medicine.

She _could_ have it. She didn’t need to think about husbands and non husbands. Mr. Holmes would never hold her back.

She was in _love_ with this man, she reminded herself. No good could come of this.

 _Molly,_ she told herself patiently, _nothing good is going to come from almost any romance that you enter, and you know this. If anyone finds out, your career will be squarely ruined, you won’t have any prospects anyway, and you will end up becoming dependent on him._

_And then he will get bored._

But then the thought again came to her – she will _never_ get love. She _might_ get love and her career, if they were careful. She would get the experience, without the Mr. Holmes ever holding her back where her job was concerned. God, he may even _help_ her.

She buried her face in her pillow.

She _hated_ logic.

She _hated_ love.

She absolutely _hated_ Mr. Holmes.

* * *

 

There was nothing for it, she had decided. She had to ignore Mr. Holmes for as long as possible. Unfortunately, they resided in the same house, so that made her life just that much more difficult. And then, he seemed to need her just _that_ much more often because why not?

Molly was certain that he was pretending through most of it to want her presence for experiments, she was absolutely positive that he didn’t eat enough to constantly be wanting tea.

Nevertheless, she glared at him and did whatever he asked her to. With the exception of falling _hopelessly_ into his arms.

Who did he think he was?

 _Your handsome employer, whom you love,_ she told herself wryly.

Mrs. Hudson worried about the way Molly and Mr. Holmes seemed to be jumping around each other. She asked Molly tentatively whether anything was wrong, and she had tersely replied with, “He’s just a damn egghead, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows at her swearing, and then tutted to herself. Molly didn’t care. She had to focus on the silverware polishing.

Meanwhile, Mr. Holmes was perfectly uncaring at other times. Which frustrated her because wasn’t she _deserving_ of a little pursuit? A little wooing? He wouldn’t marry her, she knew, but he could make her the effort of fooling her into believing it.

_That’s dangerous._

Right, she was already in love with him. She didn’t need more to be a romantic heroine. And being fooled into the prospect of marriage by an uncaring suitor was certainly _not_ something she needed.

Molly disliked August. She had been procrastinating on her textbooks so far, and she knew that she really had to finish that work now. College was just a month away.

She sighed to herself. Her heart prickled again.

She had off late noticed how her stomach would _swoop_ whenever she saw Mr. Holmes. She even noticed how much she thought about him. She disliked the feeling – it meant that she was failing in her endeavour to ignore the man.

“Molly!” he called her.

Ugh.

She came out into the hall to find him with a rather large box. “Could you help, Molly?” he asked her pleasantly.

Molly quickly picked the box up, finding herself buried under the weight. “What on earth are you carrying, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

“Books,” he said succinctly. “Medical ones.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What kind?” she asked.

“I confess, I don’t know,” he said. “Man was selling all of them at a cheap price, and it was a hard bargain to pass up. I bought them all without looking.”

Molly relaxed her shoulders. She carried the box upstairs. “Open it, Molly,” he ordered. She took out a scissor from her pocket and snipped at the binding. Out came volumes and volumes.

“Molly, isn’t this one of your textbooks?” asked Mr. Holmes nonchalantly.

“Yes...” she said slowly.

“Keep it,” he ordered. “I have enough to keep me company.”

She was thrilled, but very suspicious. She picked at the pages, and found a small ink stamp at the last page.

_Charles Edward Mudie._

He bought from... Mudie’s library?

Oh, _dear lord._

He had ordered the books? He had to have, Mudie couldn’t _specifically_ have stocked them, could he?

“Tell me, Mr. Holmes,” she said innocently. “Do you happen to have some more that I can use?”

“Yes,” he said at once. “There’s another. And another. You need this one as well, don’t you?”

She was really touched.

It was one of those rare instances when she saw with absolute clarity what it would be like to be connected to Mr. Holmes in _that_ way. It would be painful. It would be worth a lot of tears. It would amount to nothing.

But she would have everything she had wanted in life, without compromising on certain aspects. She may never get married, but she would have the love that she had craved. Wasn’t that just as important?

And if they _were_ caught, she would take her qualifications and bully Mr. Holmes into giving her passage to America. They were more liberal about these things, she may become a coroner there.

And yes, it Mr. Holmes and herself would never amount to anything.

But it would be interesting.

“Mr. Holmes?” she said hesitantly.

“Hmm?” he asked, still busy with his books.

“Um – well. I’m – well, thank you,” she said.

He straightened to see her. “You’re very welcome, Molly,” he said. His deep baritone sent shivers down her spine.

She bit her lip, blushed, to the root of her hair, she was sure. And then she pressed her lips to his cheek.

His eyes widened.

“I don’t – have – very good _words_ to express myself,” she confessed, breathing deeply.

He continued to remain shocked.

“I decided – well, to just _do_ what needed – erm – to be done,” she said.

His fingers touched his cheek.

_Oh God, had she misunderstood? Had he forgotten? Was this a mistake?_

“So,” she said, her voice squeaking. “I’d like to speak to you privately, Mr. Holmes.”

She began to leave, but he gripped her by the wrist.

“If you are bad with words then communication between us is going to be a _very_ big problem,” he told her.

Molly’s face cracked into a grin.

“Hoo-hoo!” came Mrs. Hudson’s voice from downstairs. “Molly! Anne! We have work to do.”

* * *

 

One of the more obvious things to say was “The night was dark.” Yes, nights were typically dark. Unless the moon was very full and very ready to illuminate, in which case London looked like a silver city. But _goodness,_ was the night dark, she noted.

She was lying in bed, ignoring her heart. Her focus was on the darkness.

_Stars, hide my fires._

She had to search a lot to find the phrase. She wasn’t very acquainted with literature; hence it did not immediately strike her. Of course Mr. Holmes would be acquainted with literature.

She heard footsteps outside her door.

She immediately jumped out of bed, grasping for something to hit the intruder with.

“Do avoid hitting me, Molly,” came her employer’s voice from the other side of the door.

Molly’s heart did not subside in its rapid beating.

“Terribly easy to go past Mrs. Hudson when she is on her medication,” he said, as he entered.

“Mr. Holmes!” she hissed. “Anne – Bertha –”

“Sleeping,” he told her. “I was careful.”

“I –”

“Be quiet, Molly,” he informed her.

And then he stepped forward. Molly sat down on her bed. She may have agreed to this, but she refused to be pressed against the wall without proper warning. Well – part of the appeal of wall pushing _was_ in the unexpectedness –

 _Molly!_ She reprimanded herself.

He smiled at her wryly.

“Well, Molly?” he asked her.

“I – well – erm –”

“Very articulate,” he commented dryly.

She blushed.

“You seem – very... nervous.”

“Well, I haven’t done this before,” she told him. She was glad it was dark, because she was blushing furiously.

“I have,” he said. “Tell me when to stop.”

His fingers were on her elbows. She couldn’t see the expression on his face – at all. She could feel the way his fingers felt her stomach, the fabric between his hand and her navel thin and chafing her.

She could feel butterflies in her stomach.

His arms were on her shoulders then, and Molly could swear that her breathing had become shallow. She didn’t think that _actually_ happened during kisses.

But Mr. Holmes did not kiss her. His hands came to her face, delicately tracing the outline of her lips, and then her eyes. She felt his hands under her chin, and then on her hair. He finally kissed her, and she could not think of anything beyond how unbelievable this was.

“Christ,” he whispered against her lips. He was bent down, sitting on his knees – _curse that abnormal height of his._

She smiled. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

She could feel his smile. “Hardly in vain,” he replied. “But we ought not to use your room. There’s a high risk of waking the others.”

Molly blushed red. “I know,” she said. “Next time.” Goodness, how brazen she sounded.

“That’s rather forward of you,” he teased.

“I had a hint,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t doubt.”

“Mr. Holmes?” she said hesitantly.

“Yes?” he asked her softly.

“I have a condition,” she said. Again, she thanked God for creating the darkness – it hid her blush very well. “I don’t want to – well. I don’t want to have intercourse until I am ready. And I expect you not to pressure me.”

He paused. “Ordinarily, I would be a little insulted,” he said finally. “But I will accept your anxiety. We will never do anything that you are not comfortable with.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I have another condition.”

“Yes?” he asked.

“You cannot – spend money on me,” she said.

He did not say anything. She couldn’t see his expression at all.

“Why not?” he asked neutrally.

“It would upset the balance,” she said.

“I don’t understand,” he said. He sounded cold.

“I know you are not attached to me. But I know you care about me enough to buy my textbooks for me. Unless I ask you for help, I would like it if you didn’t spend money on me. We are already in a very – _dicey –_ situation where power is concerned, and you know better than anyone how relationships are about power.”

“I would never –” he began.

“I know,” she cut in. “But I may start feeling it, unconsciously.”

He was a little angry, she could tell. “Alright,” he said. “But I will be allowed the liberty on occasions like Christmas and birthdays,” he added savagely.

She smiled. “Very well,” she said.

“And now – stories end when lovers meet,” whispered Mr. Holmes to herself.

“What do you keep quoting?” she whispered back. She still hadn’t figured it out.

“Appropriated Shakespeare,” he replied. His fingers were tracing her lips again.

“I didn’t know – you –” she took a deep breath when he kissed her neck. “Liked – _Shakespeare.”_

“I didn’t,” he said. “I liked Shelley.”

“I’m sorry? Percy – ?” he kissed her again.

“No,” he said. “Mary. The one who wrote _Frankenstein.”_

“I – _oh.”_

“Yes,” he said. “But I find myself with new admiration for the Bard.”

* * *

 

The moon was high and full. It eliminated a lot of the darkness of the night, for the moon was shining brightly.

Sherlock smoked his pipe in the middle of the night.

The stars winked at him, as if they knew a secret amongst themselves which others didn’t. There was soft breeze through London, making the smoke drift into the Thames. The moon spread across London, topping every building with silver.

It was beautiful, even if he cared not for it. This world of cutthroats and murderers, enveloped in a sheet of sheet.

There was no significance in this moment – just a very strange silence of his mind. It didn’t happen very often, but for tonight, his brain was not buzzing.

Molly would be his night-time secret.

* * *

 

Molly was living a double world, she realised at some point.

University was going to open soon (she only had a week of holidays left), she had to study for her classes, maintain the house and now – she had to meet Mr. Holmes incandescently at night.

Sorry, _Sherlock._

The name did not roll of her tongue easily. He insisted she call him that at night, kissing her over and over again on her neck, on her lips and her breasts. She had blushed when he had done that – all of this was _very_ new to her.

She knew that he could tell; because he made sure his hands never strayed. This made her both unconsciously wanting more and at the same time blushing too much to allow him to go beyond.

“Molly!” said Mrs. Hudson. “Are you done studying?”

“A little,” she replied from her room.

“Hold on, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson. Molly waited as Mrs. Hudson swept into her room, carrying a tray. “I brought you something to eat,” she said placidly.

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson!” said Molly, touched.

“Yes – plain fish, I know. But I did it in batter and fried it. My sister used to love to eat fish that way.”

“You had a sister, Mrs. Hudson?” asked Molly, surprised.

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Hudson. “She wound up marrying a young man who was articled and going into law. She’s somewhere in America right now.”

“What about you?” asked Molly.

“Me?” asked Mrs. Hudson. “Why, it’s a _terribly_ long story – I’ve grown quite old, and then by that time all stories become very _long.”_

“I noticed,” snickered Molly.

Mrs. Hudson tutted at her good-naturedly. “You young people with all your enjoyment and jokes. What does it take for an old lady to be taken seriously?”

Molly pulled a serious face. “I apologise,” she said, pressing away her smiles. “I am taking you _perfectly_ seriously.”

“Well, dear – as you know, we all grow up hearing about romance the same way some people grow up farming. I grew up in a small farm, and was quite swept away by this dashing young man. Very romantic – we eloped to America, not a penny on our name. I’m afraid it’s not a _happy_ story, my dear, but I suppose you should hear it. I have grown rather fond of you.”

Molly was touched again. She gripped Mrs. Hudson’s hand, and the old lady smiled at her.

“Anyway – I was very much in love with this young man who could do nothing much in life apart from making the bedroom a very lively place.”

Molly blushed. “Mrs. Hudson!” she said.

“Oh, goodness, dear, you have to know what I mean.” _Did she ever._ “There is no need to get so up and arms at it. Well, either way – he did know how to keep a woman satisfied, but he also knew how to keep multiple women. Not to mention being a trader in rather unsavoury substances. Eventually, he was accused for murder and Mr. Holmes came to prove this. I’ve always been rather fond of the boy, since then.”

Mr. Holmes had helped Mrs. Hudson come to London then? Had Mrs. Hudson decided to come with him? Molly was very confused by the way Mr. Holmes operated, in entirety.

“He’s a good boy,” continued Mrs. Hudson thoughtfully. “He made sure I came to London. Of course, I completely lost touch with Dorothy. I don’t know where she is anymore. I have never wanted to find out – I’d rather not let her see me this way.”

Molly thought about Lizzie, and wondered why siblings were such difficult people to get along with.

* * *

 

She was waiting for eleven o’clock. She knew that Mrs. Hudson would go to sleep early today, because she had offered to clean the dinner table. It was a weekend, and she hadn’t had the time to meet Mr. Holmes for the whole week. College had its own demands, and she couldn’t help but succumb to them. Additionally, she knew that Mr. Holmes’ case had left him wired.

Eleven o’clock finally came, and Molly finished cleaning the kitchen. Anne had been rather good-natured and helped her with the dishes, because Bertha was unwell. Anne’s kindness went on deaf ears because Molly would have liked nothing more than to be alone.

Finally, _finally,_ Anne left. Molly went into her room, waiting for some more time for everyone to have fallen asleep.

Sure enough, all the lights turned off. Barely concealing her happiness, Molly climbed upstairs with as much silence as speed could muster. One of these days, they were going to be caught.

As soon as she stepped into the upstairs flat and turned around, she found herself pressed against the door.

“I thought you weren’t coming again,” he whispered in her ear.

“Missed me?” she asked cheekily, as he kissed her.

“Terribly,” he said. “Molly – tell me – there’s a man dead who seems to have been very clearly poisoned, yet we can’t find anything that could have caused it.”

“Cyanide?” asked Molly, as she wound her fingers into his hair.

“How did you know?” asked Mr. Holmes, backing up to look at her.

Molly rolled her eyes. “It’s a murder in the country and for some reason everyone just _believes_ that cyanide works perfectly. Nonetheless, if it _did_ work in this case, someone who knows their poisons has done it.”

“I did think of that.”

“Did you check the apples?” she asked.

“Sorry?”

“Apples contain natural cyanide. Check them for extra traces.”

“By God, am I glad I have you,” said Mr. Holmes.

“Don’t hear anyone else saying that,” Molly whispered.

“Mmh,” he said. His hands went under her dress and on her thighs, carefully touching them on the inside to make Molly _moan._ “Talk to me, Molly.”

Molly had no idea what to say in such situations. She really did not – she said the first thing that popped in her head:

“The leg is – made up _of_ – _oh!_ Four primary – _bones.”_

He chuckled deeply into her neck.

“The _tibia_ and – oh _– Fibula!”_

“I am so glad you have medical knowledge,” he told her. She could tell he was – his arousal was obvious.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said frankly, “You are perfectly incorrigible.”

His hands were on her thighs again, fingers reaching forward. She sighed contentedly against him. “How many times,” he growled against her ear, “Do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

“I – _oh –_ Sherlock!”

“Good,” he said, in a self-satisfied way.

Heaven help her.

* * *

 

_Dear Meena,_

_I confess, I have been unable to write to Sally for a while now. And yes, I do have reasons for it. The primary reason being how little she cares for Mr. Holmes, and how much I seem to be in a – well,_ situation – _where he is concerned._

_I simply cannot say more in writing. If you could come and meet me, sometime during Saturday afternoon. The man himself is on a case and will be away, and I will keep some tea for you in the servant’s quarters. I’ve already asked Mrs. Hudson, and she finds it perfectly acceptable. Since it is a Saturday, I will also be very alone._

_Write back with an affirmative, please!_

_Yours,_

_Molly_

* * *

 

August and September had passed with relative ease, and Molly found herself anxiously waiting for Meena’s arrival. There was nothing new that had happened – it was just that she was able to use Mr. Holmes’ _name_ now. It was very dangerous territory, and she was worried.

Molly didn’t know _what_ she was stepping into. Meena – well, Meena had a somewhat suitor. She wondered whether Meena could give her a little advice.

The kitchen door opened, and the woman in question stepped in. Molly promptly hugged her tightly.

“I say, you’re off-colour, Molly,” exclaimed the young girl. “Oi – get your ‘ands off, I say. Molly!”

“Sorry,” said Molly breathlessly.

“Any ‘un would think you ‘aven’t seen me in ages,” said Meena. “Goodness! Molly, you really oughtn’t do that. I ask you.” Meena pronounced everything in such a _delightfully_ cockney way. It made Molly so happy to hear her say ‘ae-ges!’

“I missed you too,” said Molly, her eyes twinkling.

“Strange lass,” said Meena. “Now – what’s the big hullaballoo? I’ll tan you if you aren’t already kissing your ‘Mr. ‘Olmes!’”

“Meena!” said Molly.

“Well?” demanded Meena. “Are you?”

“I – oh –”

“Oh, don’t give me any of your delicate fancies,” said Meena scornfully. “Tell me, now. I can tell you are in love with him, not to mention that you seemed to blush a lot lesser at the idea of kissing.”

“Oh, my _god,_ Meena, I dislike you so _thoroughly.”_

“I’m sure,” said Meena wryly. “Now, have you?”

“Well – _yes.”_

“There. Was that so hard?”

“A little!” said Molly, exasperated.

“Now don’t let’s talk about this idiotic man, can we?” asked Meena aggressively. “Why – all women ever talk about – tell me about your – what’s it? University.”

“London School of Medicine for Women,” Molly said, narrowing her eyes.

“One thing or the other,” said Meena insolently. “You coulda told me that you’re going to a school to learn prostitution and I’d be impressed.”

“ _Why?”_ asked Molly, genuinely surprised.

“Why, I wouldn’t ‘ave known that such a thing existed, would I?” asked Meena. “I’d be impressed by the very existence! Not to mention someone like _you_ going there.”

Molly giggled. “Do you care for _anything?”_ asked Molly, amused.

“Very little,” said Meena. “But tell me about college now.”

“It goes well – I have some friends. A girl called Sarah, you know. But not too many. I don’t have time for friends.”

“There you go, ‘arping bout what a difficult life you lead,” said Meena. “We all live ‘ard lives, dear.”

“Well, I can _complain_ to you,” said Molly good naturedly.

“Molly ‘Ooper, I swear to God,” said Meena. “Tell me about your college – and good things only!”

“I learned how to tell poisons,” said Molly. “And how to amputate a man. And how to tell apart the different kinds of decay.”

Meena nodded approvingly. “Now _that’s_ a good life skill. You ‘old on to that.”

Molly giggled again.

* * *

 

Meena’s visit was – productive. She talked to her about marrying Rajesh, and asking him herself. When Molly raised her eyebrows, Meena said indignantly, “I ain’t waiting for the no-good man to realise I love him. God, Molly.”

Meena had also given her some much needed advice on intercourse. Molly knew that Meena was very spirited, and unlike Molly, had been with men before. Meena had told her not to think about it until she couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it – that was when she would know it was time.

Molly praised God for Meena – there was hardly anyone else for her to talk to. She couldn’t quite candidly ask Mrs. Hudson (no matter what she said about ‘making the bedroom a lively place’) about her first time, and she couldn’t ask Sally (despite Sally having two children, for Sally would be immediately suspicious). Molly categorically laughed at the idea of speaking to Lizzie about it, and John might just disown her for good this time.

But she had very feminine nerves about this – she knew, broadly, what had to be done. She knew that once it happened she would feel easier. But she also knew how much it was supposed to be frowned upon, and she wanted someone to tell her – not a blow by blow and an explanation – but just a little bit of an experiential background into intercourse.

Meena spoke about making sure to clean up afterwards, and she told Molly a few tricks which Mr. Holmes would appreciate.

“I love you, Meena,” Molly had said fervently.

At which point Meena had left, telling Molly that she was about to get sentimental and Meena could not handle a sentimental Molly.

* * *

 

Sherlock was on his bed, his hands on her again. His case was over, and she was trying her best to study.

“Mr. Holmes,” said Molly with mock severity. “I _really_ have to study.”

“Mmh,” he said to her, without paying attention. His fingers went under her skirt again. She gasped, as he kissed her, as his tongue performed deeds which she had never thought possible. In the inside of her thighs, making its way upward, carefully kissing her vagina.

It wasn’t a very _romantic_ way to describe it, but Sherlock lacked words. 

“ _Oh!”_ she said, her book falling from the bed. “You horrible man. You’re intent to have me thrown out of college.”

“Absolutely,” he said to her, emerging from her skirts.

“Sherlock,” she said softly.

“Miss Hooper?” he teased. He was almost scared by the way he enjoyed her saying his name. It felt like a sacred novelty, something that she barely allowed herself to enjoy.

He enjoyed seeing her so undone, so much on the brink of enjoyment, and yet holding herself back. He enjoyed seeing these moments become lesser and lesser, and liked it immensely when she began to enjoy herself just as much as he did.

He had never expected the act of love (and they hadn’t even _tried_ that) to be so... satisfying.

Oh, he had done this before. He hadn’t enjoyed it so much before – kissing was something that was too much of a power play with Adler to enjoy, and with any of the normal prostitutes that one came across, kissing wasn’t allowed. Kissing was something special, and he had never expected it to be so fulfilling.

He categorised every moan Molly made, intent on further and further experimentation. She was surprisingly ready to do almost anything – he would whisper the filthiest of ideas to her, at which she only blushed. The only problem was that she was inexperienced: she didn’t know how to _proceed._

But he had seen how much defter she had become at unbuttoning his shirt, and how her hands would weave across the contours of his body, always curious to see what they could find. He noticed the way she would look at his freckles, the way she would count them.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” she asked.

She was watching him again, with the kind of intensity that made him afraid all over again. He pushed away the thought, focusing on her.

“Isn’t that my line?” he asked her.

“Don’t tease me, sir,” smiled Molly.

“Well, if you say so.” It was true. Molly was rather plain – maid or not. Perhaps in the right fashion and with a little face paint she would look a lot lovelier. But it was a relief knowing that she didn’t expect compliments.

The way she told him of _his_ beauty made him curious. She was a very odd girl, he knew, and her appreciation _shouldn’t_ make a difference on his constitution, but he found himself with an elevated heart-rate – and he wasn’t even touching her.

“Could you – well, I’d like to do something for you,” she said. Her hands were on his trousers, and she began undoing his buttons. She smiled nervously, and he was struck by how endearing it was.

Again, he noticed how much defter she had become with buttons.

* * *

 

When she went downstairs again, she thought about how much she would love it if she had stayed with him throughout. The ridiculous situation that she was in was never lost in her, for she always had to go downstairs.

Meena would scoff at this. She thought Molly’s fancy was a passing one.

Molly was not someone who fancied easily. She was so happy Mr. Holmes had enjoyed the trick Meena had told her, and she was more than happy that her tongue had not failed her. She wondered why no one ever spoke about oral pleasure, and why it was so frowned upon. Clearly, Mr. Holmes could do a very good job of it with her. She… might need some practice.

He had cried her name in tones almost too loud – she was glad that they had a sleepy Mrs. Hudson and an Anne who had disappeared for home.

He had spent himself afterwards, and Molly was adequately surprised that she had caused that.

But at the same time, she knew that her mouth could use refinement. They hadn’t actually _had_ intercourse yet, but Molly found herself bolder.

The stars twinkled at her, and she sighed to herself. She wished she could – well, she wished she could be alone with him for days at a time. But she knew that he would eventually bore of her.

She wished she had holidays, for she needed sleep. Hopefully, Mr. Holmes would get a case soon.

The stars twinkled at her again. It was an odd night, Molly decided.

She collapsed on her bed, cuddling up tightly. She wished the rather boisterous Anne would come back, for then Molly might be able to convince her to take on a little extra work.

The blankets covered her up and she fell asleep, thinking about stars, Sherlock, and secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love them reviews :)
> 
> Making a guest appearance in the title today is Robert Browning, with his 'Woman's Last Word'. The original line is "All be as before, love." I wanted to use something from 'Porphyria's Lover' but then I was like "Ok but think about how morbid that would be and what kind of foreshadowing it could imply" so then I picked this one.


	8. Write My Mind Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes hi hello I missed all of you. 
> 
> Relatively IMP Author's Note: this is going to be the last chapter for a while. I have exams coming and that's really stressful because exams and also because I'm eighty percent sure I'm going to fail my Indian Writing paper. I'm definitely failing my British paper. 
> 
> In other news, Tingy (my beta) has a message for all of you: "ridiculosity is now accepting applications for the post of beta because """Tingy""" has resigned due to overuse of this resented moniker SERIOUSLY WOMAN QUIT IT OUT." She's just being cute. We love Tingy, the belligerent review scaring crazy cat lady.
> 
> ANYWAY. Yes, I will be coming back in about a month, don't worry. After the eighteenth of May sometime.

_Dear Sally,_

_I am sorry for not having written to you in so long. I will assure you that you are not forgotten, that I miss you very much – it is just that I find myself very busy with university all over again. My marks slipped a little in the middle – I suppose the second year is a lot more difficult than the first. In any case, I had to pick up again, not to mention get adequate sleep to operate at full capacity._

_How are your children? I am glad you let Roger sign up as a sailor: he will be happy, Sally. He may even make it to the colonies, and he will definitely be happy there. Trust him to write to you, and trust him to come back to you again and again until the very last time. Who knows? Maybe you will leave London and her memories for the Americas._

_If we lived in an ideal world, Sally, I would have you as an officer of the law. I know that it is highly improbable, but one can dream._

_Dreams are terribly insidious, though, aren’t they?_

_Sally, I wish I could speak to you freely. I wish I could speak to_ anyone _freely. My mind is constantly torn between two different thoughts, and it constantly finds itself in the middle of singing and crying. I almost miss Lizzie’s home, for I’d have some time with my thoughts. I speak to Meena enough to unburden myself, but she’s happy – she’s about to get married this Christmas. I’m to be her maid of honour. She wanted me to ask you if you could come as well. She would be happy if you could._

_I have found an old dress of mine – which is, thankfully, white (or rather, cream). I plan to give it to her. It is an unconventional marriage, for she is the one who proposed. It transpired that he had been planning it as it is, and had his mother’s old ring as well. It’s a pretty thing, even if it isn’t much. Trust Meena to stomp on his plans of proposal – she’s too headstrong, that girl._

_There isn’t anyone to give her away. Both her parents remain six feet under the ground. She’s a trifle sad, but not very – she’s rather thick skinned, if you hadn’t noticed._

_I feel – well, I feel bittersweet about this, Sally. You never got married, so I don’t know if you understand what I mean. I admire your courage, raising your children by yourself, after whatever their horrible father made you go through. But I feel strange with Meena getting married. I wish I could be married, even though I know that I cannot be._

_Dreams really are insidious things._

_Yours,_

_Molly_

* * *

 

Molly Hooper was a fascinating study in female psychology, Sherlock decided.

It was one of the most interesting experiments he had conducted – and, the subject had consented, not to mention! He hated absolving himself of sin after using human friends as subjects – he remembered when Watson had lost his temper during the case of the ‘ _Hounds of Baskervilles’_ of all things. And Sherlock had only poisoned him a _little_ then.

Molly, unfortunately, was used to his general tendency to poison food items. His attempts at poisoning her by asking her to eat his leftovers were thwarted by her rolling her eyes and telling him that she wasn’t planning to accept so much as a peanut from him.

Of course, Molly and Watson’s approaches to poisons weren’t their only differences. Molly knew that this was an experiment: she didn’t retain any of the feminine clingy-ness that he had observed in Janine. He never needed to pretend to care for her to extract favours from her.

This was almost baffling. He wasn’t accustomed to the idea that a woman would do something just for the sake of intercourse.

And then, he wasn’t even doing _that_ with her as of now.

They’d had a mouth fuck on her end, and she had been excellent. Of course, he did that with her a lot, so it wasn’t a great testament to his skill: to be able to make a virgin girl scream with his mouth. But for her to have been very good was strange – it meant that either her mouth was very good (statistically impossible), or he was attracted to the idea of _her_ mouth on his prick.

He didn’t think that the former was true, because it didn’t fit. Talent was one thing, obviously. You couldn’t automatically make a man orgasm, especially a man who does _have_ experience.

The more plausible option was that he liked _her_ more than he liked the act itself.

Which was far too confusing for him to analyse, so he left it at that.

The other thing to consider was her lack of jealousy over his cases. He had seen enough of female behaviour to see how much they disliked his favouring his work. Molly didn’t care – she felt relieved when he _did_ have a case, for she got to sleep then.

He had noticed her dark circles, and had many times pretended to be busy so that she would not feel obliged to come to him for the night, only to be sent away. It was prudent: he didn’t want her faltering in her studies.

She was, at the same time, tied to some of the emotional restrictions of her sex. During some of their times together, he had kissed her hand, and he had noted how endearing she had seemed to find it. Small acts were odd with this woman: she became so emotional because of them. She revelled in the silences that had driven others to distraction, she preferred being with him reading a book late into the night while he worked on an odd experiment.

She really _was_ a fascinating study in feminine psychology – one of the primary reasons was that she was so _aware_ yet _unaware_ of her femininity. It struck as alien, yet so terribly real – he wondered why literature and music had never be able to bring a woman like Molly to life. Because if Molly was right about God, then the scientists had already made a Molly.  

*

_Dear John,_

_It was good to hear from you – don’t hesitate in writing to me, please. I welcome every letter in my lonely existence._

_That was a little too much like a spinster, even for me. Nevertheless, you_ should _write. I felt quite thrilled, I assure you. I am glad that Thomas has finally started standing on his own two feet. He looks like he is going to be a nice, strapping boy – take care of him, John. They grow up remarkably fast during these years, speaking as a medical practitioner._

_I am happy that Lizzie is happy. She is now at the zenith of everything that she wanted from life. Papa would be proud, I can promise you that. Mamma would be even more so. She always loved Lizzie more than anything else._

_Sometimes I wonder what they would say were they still here. I think Mamma would be highly disapproving of me, but I care very little. Papa would be happy with both his daughters. He may be pleased by me becoming a doctor (which should happen, if no mishap occurs between now and the end of the term), but I think he will have his heart warmed with the idea of Thomas. We may want our daughters to be accomplished young women, masters at the piano, at dance, at drawing and embroidery – however, what we_ wish _for is grandchildren._

_And anyway, there are only five or six truly accomplished women in this world, are they not, John?_

_Before you tell me whatever the conduct book says, I will remind you that I have violated it from the first letter and onwards. There is no point trying to save a young hussy like me, I am quite beyond redemption. Convince me not of it, for I will die with it at the stake._

_I am glad your work goes well, and happier still that you are happy. God would be happy to see you, John – no matter how blasphemous you think that is. God is strange that way – he cares very little for your blasphemy._

_Before I scandalise you into oblivion, I will put my pen down. Do write more often! I wish to see a portrait of your family in your home whenever I next visit. With little Thomas and everything. Although, when I next visit is so highly debatable that I leave the whole endeavour up to you._

_Yours, &c _

_Molly_

* * *

 

“No, Molly.”

“I’m fairly certain of it, Mr. Holmes.”

“You and I both know that you are making wild and arbitrary guesses.”

“You’re the one who is making the arbitrary guesses!”

John frowned at the door. Mrs. Hudson stood beside him.

He leaned towards Mrs. Hudson. “What are they talking about, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Heaven alone knows, Dr. Watson,” said Mrs. Hudson in an equally perplexed voice.

There was the sound of something slamming a table. He was assuming that it was Holmes’ fist.

“If a ghost _does_ exist then it most certainly is _not_ an echo or an imprint of the person’s personality!”

John frowned at the door.

“If a ghost _can_ exist then it _cannot_ be the dissipating energy of the deceased!” came Molly’s counter. “That would just mean that the person is still alive!”

“It is simply a function of _remaining_ energy!”

“It is an act where the echo of the person’s personality remains!”

“How long have they been going on?” asked John.

“Once again, heaven alone knows,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Sometime back it was about Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?” asked John, astounded.

“Something about whether or not Shakespeare was a genius or an idiot.”

“I’m guessing it was Holmes who took up the latter argument?”

“Funnily enough, no,” sighed Mrs. Hudson. Now _that_ really was curious.

“Can we please stop arguing about this?” said Holmes’ voice from behind the door.

“Why, are you worried I will win?” challenged Molly.

“Certainly not,” snapped Holmes. “Watson happens to be outside the door puzzling out what we are both doing.”

And wouldn’t this conversation sell well in the _Strand_ or even in a newspaper. Frankly, he was certain that some of Holmes’ enemies would pay good money for the details of his conversations with Molly Hooper.

* * *

 

Molly was impatient for November to end. She was excited about the end of November, and she was excited primarily because she was excited about Meena’s wedding.

They were out together, for Molly had to do a little shopping since Anne was unwell. Anne was unwell because she was fighting with a young girl who had the audacity to down Anne with a bucketful of cold water.

“Molly, if you lament about the lass’ sickness _one_ more time,” said Meena to her –

“Yes, I know, you will skin me alive,” sighed Molly. “I just feel rather bad! Betty is a cheeky little thing, and Anne is such a determined and hard headed one. What a pair they would make should they be friends.”

“Such a pair ain’t nothing but trouble,” said Meena darkly. “They’ll be taking all your petticoats and dipping them in cold water next, and before you know it there’ll be toads in your cake mixes and positive _firecrackers_ in your ovens.”

Molly frowned at Meena. “Didn’t _you_ put toads in your mother’s cake mixes?” she asked.

“O’ course,” said Meena. “What’s life without a few toads in cake mixes?”

“Then how can you be _against_ them doing the same thing?” asked Molly.

“Why, I don’t want none in _my_ cake mixes,” said Meena. “You’re _slow,_ Molly ‘Ooper. I ‘ope you know that.” Meena picked up some fat potatoes. Molly also weighed a couple.

“ _Flowers!”_ yelled a vendor. “ _Flowers!”_

“I’m reminded every once in a while,” said Molly dryly.

“Too right,” said Meena. “Idiotic girl.”

“Oh, go on,” said Molly. She picked some fresh lettuce. “You sound like Mr. Holmes. ‘ _No Molly, William Shakespeare was an intelligent man who was commenting on society.’”_

“Well, wasn’t ‘ee?” said Meena idly.

“He _might_ have been,” said Molly argumentatively. “I’ve only read _Much Ado About Nothing,_ and I swear to God, all he does is make inappropriate jokes and laugh at society.”

Meena looked at her like she had spouted Latin.

“’Ere!” she said. “None of your fancy _madame_ opinions, Molly! You and your fancy _opinions.”_

“I’m just saying –” began Molly.

“I’m having _none_ of it!” said Meena. “Talk about the poisons. They make a lot more sense. Or I’ll prattle on and on about my wedding plans.”

* * *

 

December came, and London chilled over. Winter in London was about all the different ways one could see their own breaths – the way the whole world would begin to look like the white would just _never_ melt into spring.

Molly was talking about it like she had lived in a world of thrushes and villages and green, leafy commons. By the time Molly had begun to grow older, the commons were one foot into their graves, and whatever was left was just something of Romantic imagination. Mr. Holmes didn’t like _any_ of the Romantic poets – she couldn’t _quite_ understand why.

He had read her some of Keats, and while the man seemed be a little _long winded,_ he certainly wasn’t _terrible._ She had found the imagery striking, and she had loved the way the Autumn and its death had come.

This was another thing that Molly hadn’t known _was_ Mr. Holmes’ interest. He liked literature.

Well, he didn’t _like_ literature. He felt that most writers and poets spoke of emotions and sentiment too much for his liking. Yet, at the same time, Molly knew that he could quote yards and yards of Tennyson, while she was hardpressed to remember the _one_ play she _had_ read.

Molly didn’t know why he could quote so many poets and writers. It was certainly not logical – writing was a form which was so terribly _irrational,_ that she didn’t know why he did seem to know it so well.

“Molly, dear would you like a little tea?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

“Yes please,” said Molly earnestly.

“What’s this?” asked Mrs. Hudson, bringing in the tea. “You’re sitting rather pensively.”

“I’m wondering if I have been a little one-sided with my approach to studying,” said Molly. “Mr. Holmes knows how to play the violin, knows literature where I stick to romances alone. He is good at many things, while I barely learned how to cook and practice medicine.”

Mrs. Hudson sat down next to her at the window. “I understand, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson. “But you bake rather well, don’t you?”

“And organise,” said Molly. “Three things. There, Mr. Holmes. I am your equal in lesser things.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. The bell rang, and Molly at once got up. She helped Mrs. Hudson with the tea, unhappy that the old lady would not be able to enjoy it.

She went to the hallway, wondering who it was and whether coats would need taking.

“Yes?” said Mrs. Hudson.

“Is there a Molly Hooper here?” the person on the other end asked.

_Oh no._

“Yes, who is calling?” asked Mrs. Hudson politely.

_This cannot –_

“Elizabeth Ashford.”

_Be happening again._

“Oh, _no,”_ said Molly. “Honestly, why in _heaven’s_ name do any of you bother breaking it off with me if you’re all just going to come _crawling_ into my work place to have a chat?”

“It’s not going to be _friendly_ if that’s what you’re worried about, Molly Hooper,” said Lizzie at the door.

“I would be disappointed if it was.”

“My God, you think of me as a monster, don’t you?” asked Lizzie.

“You’re my sister. It is a familial prerogative.”

“And I suppose you’re the martyred younger sister, who did no wrong?” asked Lizzie harshly.

“Whatever I did to you was unconscious.”

“Codswallop,” said Lizzie derisively.

“Now, there is no need for such language,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Mrs. Ashford. Come inside. Molly, make your sister tea.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” said Molly.

Lizzie followed her into the kitchen. “So, you work here as a maid?”

“Unless the apron didn’t give it away, yes,” said Molly, throwing water into a pan and putting it to boil. “Why are you here, Lizzie?”

“I wanted to know why you were writing to John,” said Lizzie.

“You could have written to me directly.”

“I had a feeling that you were working in unseemly conditions,” said Lizzie uncomfortably. “And also – I felt like meeting you. I wanted to either gloat at you or tell you of how Thomas was doing.”

“Very kind,” said Molly sarcastically. She tipped over tea leaves into the pan, without noticing how hot the water had already gotten.

“Oh, come on, _Molly!”_ said Lizzie. “You’re hardly one to believe me, but I can tell how little you hold yourself responsible for any of the things that happened between us!”

“Because _nothing_ happened between us,” said Molly. “Apart from the rather malicious incident where I cut up your doll, how was I responsible for the way father behaved?”

“Nothing happens from one side alone,” said Lizzie. “You know that. Father may have been favouring you and being kind to you, but you were also the one who encouraged him. You knew how some things made me felt, yet you allowed him to go against them. Molly, you disliked me just as much as I disliked you – you revelled in making me feel worthless and insignificant!”

“I didn’t –”

“You _cannot_ tell me that you didn’t mean to!” cried Lizzie. Lizzie was also an easy crier. Molly could see the way she was holding back. “Perhaps you _did_ and perhaps you didn’t, but you can’t not have known what it did to me!”

“Lizzie –”

“You were always so perfect, yet so bloody unnatural. I know you asked father if you could stay in and read instead of go for the Christmas Ball, and I couldn’t go either because of that.”

Molly didn’t say anything, for it made her uncomfortable.

“I’m willing to understand that most of the resentment came from my side. But you also have to know that you are no saint. You knew what I disliked, and you allowed it to fester. And then when Tom happened, you _knew_ how much I liked him.”

“I said no to him, Lizzie!” said Molly passionately.

“But you considered!” she said. “You considered, and that’s what made him falter.”

“You have John now,” said Molly earnestly.

“And I love him. Don’t take that from me,” said Lizzie.

“I –” Molly began. She took a deep breath.

“You _like_ being the one who is against the world. It gives you legitimacy. It allows you to do what you enjoy without worrying about whom you can hurt. It allows you, even, to practice medicine – for you are a woman who is doing something unheard of. The whole world is already against you in many ways, Molly. Don’t put everyone who might love you on that side as well.”

The tea leaves had boiled over and water spilled from the saucepan.

* * *

 

Lizzie stirred the tea without looking at Molly. Molly sipped some of her tea.

“So,” she began.

“Yes?” said Lizzie.

“I – well,” Molly took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, first of all. I admit that I was, many times, _aware_ of what I was doing.”

Lizzie sniffed.

“And,” Molly breathed again. “I like – I like being isolated from the people whom I perceive – have _power._ I prefer friends who are coloured, I prefer people keep away from me. It makes my – well, it makes it easier for me to believe that people like you – who have husbands, children, and houses – whose husbands get to vote and who are allowed into church without staring and whispers. It makes it easier for me to think that you are against me.”

“Why?” asked Lizzie earnestly.

“It makes being a social outcast easier,” said Molly quietly. “I never connected with any of you. I didn’t have any friends. I used to think it was because I was different, but there are too many men and women for all of us to be unique. It is easier to go against the wishes of those who are the majority if you believe that you don’t belong in the majority anyway.”

“Molly, you _could_ be,” said Lizzie. “Easily. Why do you believe it to be out of your reach?”

“I don’t think – I want that life, Lizzie,” said Molly gently. “I wouldn’t be able to reconcile myself to it after having seen so much.”

Lizzie was beginning to look indignant again.

“But that doesn’t mean that everyone from that life has rejected me, or that I was rejected by it,” finished Molly.

“Why do you _insist_ on medicine, Molly?” said Lizzie tearfully.

“Because I love it,” said Molly. She could feel the bright redness come into her face when she thought of something the way Keats thought of Autumn. It wasn’t a blush of embarrassment, it was a solid red of purpose.

Lizzie noticed the odd way she said it. Molly didn’t need to explain. She thought of the way Mr. Holmes sometimes would start deducing – no one needed to ask _why_ he did what he did then.

“I love it,” she repeated.

Lizzie nodded remotely, and even Molly knew that she had finally gotten through to her.

“Molly?” asked Lizzie timidly.

“Yes?” asked Molly distantly.

“Are you in love?” she asked meekly.

Molly blinked at her.

“I think you’re in love,” said Lizzie. “It certainly seems to. And I don’t mean the medicine – that was rather obvious for a long time. But there’s something else keeping you here, can’t you tell?”

“I – well,” Molly searched for an explanation. She glared at Lizzie. “I dislike you.”

Lizzie immediately seemed to warm to Molly. “Who is it?” she asked interestedly.

“My God, Lizzie, I am not discussing this with you.”

“This is so exciting. I am determined to find out.”

“You will _not,”_ said Molly darkly.

“I’m good at gossip, Molly,” sang Lizzie.

“And I am good at secrets,” said Molly.

“Pish and posh,” said Lizzie. “You couldn’t keep it a secret that you’re _still_ scared of thunder.”

“It is _loud_ and I hate it!” said Molly. Sherlock didn’t _know_ she was scared of thunder... a well kept secret.

“Ha! He doesn’t know that you are scared of thunder, does he? There,” said Lizzie. “Have I not proved myself?”

Molly narrowed her eyes at Lizzie. “Go away.”

“You go away,” said Lizzie.

“My place of work!” said Molly triumphantly.

“My money which allows me to do what I want!” said Lizzie.

“Why _are_ you here?” asked Molly.

“Susan wanted to come to London for a little shopping. The season is starting, after all – she brought me to see some clothes for children and everything. You simply _cannot_ get London styles elsewhere. I came, but I will be leaving in a matter of a week. Thomas is alone with his nurse.”

“Of course,” said Molly. She sighed. “You live a very different life.”

“Which you can be part of,” said Lizzie gently.

“I’d wish to kill myself in a week,” sighed Molly. “And then Heaven will be denied to me. I’d rather not, Lizzie.”

* * *

 

Lizzie’s meeting sparked correspondence between them again, but this time – it was so much more honest. Lizzie told her of the neighbours she had begun to hate, about Thomas and how fast he was growing. Molly had begun to look forward to Lizzie’s letters, for they always, _always_ had the same question at the bottom.

_PS: Molly, who is it?_

Molly would always laugh it off. She was careful with the way she mentioned Mr. Holmes in her letters to Lizzie. 

December seemed to shuffle by without concern. The first week came, and left Molly without classes, the second week began and brought Molly Meena’s wedding. Small ceremony, Meena had said. She didn’t know that many people in the city to be having a big party, and she definitely didn’t have the money for one.

They had managed to find her a dress – an old cream one of Molly’s, one which had needed alterations to fit Meena. Where Molly was slightly plump, Meena was small and skinny, not to mention mostly wiry. Molly wondered how Meena was to have children with her _thin_ thighs.

But in the meanwhile, there was lots to be done. Molly washed some dishes in the sink – Mrs. Hudson was upstairs, hyperventilating over the state of all of Mr. Holmes’ experiments. Molly didn’t care enough at the moment to stop her: it would only get really bad once she found the fungal growth on the bread (which he had made her steal from her labs, _again!)_.

The door opened, and Molly rushed to let Mr. Holmes in.

“Oh. It’s you,” he said, surprised.

“Whom were you expecting?” asked Molly, raising her eyes.

“I don’t know. Who normally takes my coat?” he asked, confused.

“... I do,” said Molly. “Honestly, Mr. Holmes.”

“No, I would have noticed if it was you,” said Mr. Holmes. “You have brown hair and brown eyes.”

“Observant, Mr. Holmes,” said Molly sarcastically.

“Would you prefer poetry, Miss Hooper?” he teased.

“I’d rather not hear what kind of poetry your mind would come up with,” she said firmly. “I was wondering if I could ask for an off on the weekend, sir?”

He frowned. “What for?”

“Meena is getting married,” Molly explained.

“Oh,” he said. “Very well.”

“Mr. _Holmes!”_ came the hysterical voice of Mrs. Hudson from upstairs.

“Ah. She found the fungus,” said Molly.

“That would be the fungus,” said Mr. Holmes at the same time.

They heard a few pots falling.

“How long do you think before she finds us in this empty hallway?” asked Mr. Holmes.

Molly raised her eyes at him again, and she smiled. “Seven seconds.”

Before she had the time to register what he was doing, he had pressed his lips on hers for a small peck.

“You know, one day, we will be caught,” said Molly conversationally.

“Spare me the lecture, Molly Hooper,” he grinned at her. “You don’t know what strength of mind it takes for me to restrain myself after a long case.”

And then Mrs. Hudson was upon them.

* * *

 

_Dear Lizzie,_

_You know, this is a strange game you are playing. How can you_ not _tell John of your correspondence with me, and how can John believe that you know nothing of my correspondence with_ him? _I do not like this odd game of chess, hilarious though the consequences may be._

 _I cannot believe Mrs. Turner would allow her daughter to be married to that absolute_ rake! _Why, I deeply,_ deeply _disliked William Beaufort when he was a child. Don’t you remember how he used to insist on pulling your pigtails, and how he could never keep silent during a party? I remember how much_ more _you used to hate him than I did. I have a feeling that he liked you, though. Men are strange in the way they show affection._

_In other news, Meena is to be married next week. Everything is ready – it will be a very small ceremony. We have arranged the flowers, the food and most of whatever else we could. She is to wear my cream coloured dress, and we will be going to the coloured church which is in the more decrepit part of town. The reception is going to be held in Rajesh’s home itself. He has a mother, who has done most of the cooking herself._

_I have prepared myself with nothing very nice to wear. I’m wearing one of my better dresses – it is, unfortunately, not as flattering as you would like it to be. Either way, I shall have to leave now, for Mr. Holmes’ evening meal has to be made._

_Yours, &c_

_Molly_

* * *

 

_To Molly Hooper,_

_221B Baker, Street_

_London_

_Dear Molly,_

_Be quiet. It’s a dress. Consider it a token to build a little affection between us, even though none exists, even now. Enjoy the wedding. And don’t worry, you wouldn’t be outstripping the bride._

_Love,_

_Lizzie_

* * *

 

Meena was looking _radiant._

Molly’s dress had been altered with sleeves which were a little puffier. The veil framed her face extraordinarily well, and she looked like she had never been happier. The dress didn’t have a very large skirt, but it would do.

More than that, the satisfaction on her best friend’s face was what prompted Molly into tears.

Meena was not going to be her friend alone anymore. She was someone else’s just as much as she was Molly’s, if not more. No wonder it had taken her a while to start liking Rajesh.

“I do,” said Meena.

Molly’s heart broke.

Tears came down her face again, and she couldn’t help but use Sally’s handkerchief, the one which she had been determined not to use. She missed Meena already, with an almost Petrarchan distance between the two of them.

She knew that this was absolute rubbish, that there was nothing stopping her from continuing to be friends with Meena. But she had studied human relationships too long to not know what a tricky manipulation life was going to be once her studies were done.

It was difficult to envision her future, particularly when she was white and all her friends were coloured. It would become difficult for her to be with them, and for them to be with her should she eventually become a success and earn enough to call them to her home. What kind of friends would they make, eventually?

Her heart felt happy as Meena and her new husband left the church. She was going to have a wonderful life, but, as Sally gripped her hand, and Molly could feel nothing but glass in her stomach.

* * *

 

“Ah, you returned?” asked Mr. Holmes. He was sitting on his chair.

Molly sighed. “I did.”

“What happened?” he frowned.

“I’m going to miss her,” Molly said. She sat down at his feet, and she felt him flinch at the intimacy. Yet, she knew that it was late and no one was awake. Her voice was cracking, but she refused to cry in front of Mr. Holmes. She had enough mental strength to not do that. With Mr. Holmes, the best way to avoid crying was to confront whatever was causing it with a raw saltiness that she could face.

“Why?” he asked. His eyes were shut, his fingers steepled together.

“She’s my best friend,” said Molly. “Don’t you miss Dr. Watson?”

“Rubbish. I meet him all the time,” he said evenly.

This surprised her. She frowned at him. “Isn’t it different?”

“It would be foolish of me to pretend that it isn’t,” said Mr. Holmes. “But I do not cry over it, for he is – essentially the same. And Mary is a very good compromise to keep Watson satiated with the family life I could not have given him while at the same time keeping him for cases.”

“I liked Mrs. Watson,” said Molly quietly.

“Another consensual sentiment,” said Mr. Holmes. “You look nice,” he added almost inconsequently.

Molly blushed. She didn’t look at herself, but she had never been more pleased. The offhand comment made the emphasis of it even better.

* * *

 

He noted the way her pupils had dilated when she turned to look at him in surprise, and the blush which was more of pleasure than embarrassment. Her fingers started fidgeting with the folds of her dress, and her nervousness suited the colour of the gown very well.

“Is it your sister’s?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded. The dress was blue, periwinkle. It was very pretty, but he could see why Elizabeth Ashford had picked this one dress. It would not have been better than the bride’s. Molly, instead, had looked ordinarily pretty – the kind of pretty you saw when the flower vendors began to unveil their commodities: the thousands of flowers, in endless colours, which almost blinded you had you not already been very used to such beauty.

“I don’t have a very savoury idea of what to do with it,” said Sherlock.

“I know,” she said boldly. He couldn’t see her face.

That was surprising.

* * *

 

He was looking at her with that hunger again, and she wanted to kiss him. She had turned around, and his fingers were on her cheeks again. He leaned down to kiss her, and Molly felt shudders down her back.

She began to unlace her dress, and he groaned. “Why?” he said to himself, as he continued to kiss her.

She didn’t say anything, standing up, away from him. “Why, what?” she asked.

“Why do you make me remember poetry?” he asked, watching her standing far away from him.

“Which poet?” she asked.

“Donne.”

“I haven’t –”

“No, it would be improper if you had,” he said. He stood up, and reached for her, kissing her again. His hands were around her waist. She could not help but wonder what was so terribly wrong about Donne that women were not allowed to read him.

“ _Off with the girdle, like heaven’s zone glistering – but a far fairer world encompassing.”_

 _Oh._ So that was what was wrong.

“Yes,” she said softly. Her dress was beginning to fall from her body, and Mr. Holmes didn’t care to take into account that it was Lizzie’s. She didn’t care much either, but at least he didn’t tear it from her body or something – no matter how impractical (yet arousing) it would have been.

“ _Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime – Tells me from you that now ‘tis your bed time.”_

His fingers did not reach, automatically, for her thighs. Instead he continued to kiss her, undoing the buttons of her corset. He stopped, midway, staring into her eyes. Molly shuddered again, and wanted to kiss him, but he stopped her.

“ _Licence my roving hands, let them go,”_ he said, gently kissing her lips.

“Always,” she said, her mouth open with desire.

“ _Before, behind, between, above, below,”_ he finished.

She was the one who pushed him back this time.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes?” he repeated, confused.

“Yes,” she said, and undid the last button of her corset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, like I said, I don't really write sex scenes. 
> 
> I will be seeing all of you after the eighteenth of May now! 
> 
> Making a guest appearance in the title this time is Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who was definitely more Romantic!Poet than Browning who was all Victorian!Poet (I prefer her husband over her). The original line is "Write my curse tonight" from the poem "A Curse For a Nation." Which is about slavery, incidentally. Boy do I have weird choices.
> 
> Reviews are the bestest ever.


	9. We'll Tak A Cup o'Sentiment Yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! After having a break so long, it took a while to get back into writing mood. 
> 
> New chapter, new poet, from a fresh country. I'd been using English poets so far, but here we have appropriated Robert Burns in the title. He's Scottish. 
> 
> Trigger warning: no research for the medical stuff. 
> 
> On another note, I missed you guys. Tingy says hi. TheLittleSparrow and InMollysWildestDreams are awful people who are using me for fics.

Molly was sleeping, tired out, on his bed.

The poets were constantly writing about such a scene. It was very well iterated; Donne would ask the sun to please leave him and his lover alone, Shakespeare would wonder whether the bird outside the window was the herald of the morning or the night owl. The woman would be sleeping, looking very much like a porcelain doll, her hair spread across the pillow and the man would ruminate on her beauty.

Sherlock wondered how the poets could think of it with such clarity.

This was why Molly reminded him of poetry, he realised. It wasn’t epiphanic, this realisation, but he understood, for a moment, why she made him think of Shakespeare.

It wasn’t because the cliché was true; because seeing his lover as she slept was something that made him think of everything beautiful. It wasn’t because Molly was such a striking beauty – she was plain, even after the heated love-making of the night before. She didn’t have Irene Adler’s regal beauty, or the confidence of her smile. Nothing in his hormones made him see her for anything more than what she already was.

It was because poets, perhaps, could understand the truth of the way one viewed the naked body of their lover. Because beauty was ungraspable, and they made it words. Because it was impossible to contemplate Molly without the assistance of a little poetry.

This was a difficult realisation to reconcile with. It went against whatever logic he had instilled in himself. But Sherlock was not one to deny himself simple truths, and the truth was – a Molly who had moaned his name repeatedly during intercourse and now was lying in his bed naked was a Molly that was incomprehensible without poetry.

* * *

 

Mr. Holmes had been watching her while she slept. She knew this not because she had been proverbially awake – she _had_ been very tired, and _had_ slept. Mr. Holmes had just woken her up exactly when she had asked him to, and that had been odd. What had been odder was that he was in the exact same position by the window when he had _._

She had refused to analyse the implications of that. It wouldn’t help if she did, anyway.

On the other hand – Sherlock clearly _knew_ how to make love to a woman.

She had already known this, obviously, but it had hit her all over again last night. She remembered him saying something about ‘The Woman’ and how _she_ kissed. Molly had felt self conscious at her own lack of experience, but he had not allowed it.

He knew how much it would hurt, and had warned her. He held back so that her pain would not increase, and he had kissed her again and again, to prevent her moans from escaping the bedroom. He had entered her, and after a while she had seen stars.

She had wanted to do it once more, but he had denied her, telling her that this much was enough to get sore. He didn’t need her falling over herself the next day.

She had felt touched at that. She wanted to say something but thought better of it – once she started speaking to him about the things that endeared him to her, she would never stop. And if she did not stop telling him then he would know how deeply she had fallen into this disaster.

Head first, too.

And she could not let him know.

* * *

 

The house looked very cheerful. Molly and Anne had put together decorations, and Mr. Holmes had consented to allow them how much ever they needed for Christmas this year, as long as no Christmas parties were held.

Anne had laughed and gone with Molly, bargained with all the vendors and fought off the male ‘suitors’ that had tried stopping them both. She was a belligerent little thing, and she had sniffed when she had talked about Betty: as if Betty was not worth her time.

Molly had smiled and agreed with her assessment of Betty’s character (which was largely negative), thinking, at the same time, of Lizzie.

They had covered the house in mistletoe and holly and whatever else they could find. Molly had brought a tree which had to be decorated. Mr. Holmes had scowled at the pair of them as they came in, laughing and smiling.

The house didn’t look quite as quiet anymore, Molly reflected. She didn’t think it was before, and she wasn’t narcissistic enough to credit herself with the change in the house.

The stairs were cleaned up for Christmas, despite their lack of guests. All the belongings of the house were in place – everything smelled of pies and biscuits. Molly had sent some of the pies and biscuits to the other Mr. Holmes, much to the anger of _her_ Mr. Holmes.

Perhaps, most obvious of all: the violin was playing during the day time as well.

* * *

 

Christmas came with expectations, Sherlock reflected. Spend time with loved ones and family. A Christmas dream was a vague little thing, created out of an image of a tree and decorations, of an idea of what one should get as presents.

Molly _loved_ it.

Her face glowed as she put the tree together, and she smiled when they covered the house in ridiculous decorations. She was smiling at Anne as they put the whole affair together. Sherlock had scowled and ignored the way she was singing carols under her breath while putting up mistletoe.

He was glad that he had employed no males among the staff, or Molly might have been kissed under doorways. He didn’t like to think about a tall footman kissing Molly as she smiled at him. She enjoyed kissing – she may not even discriminate against others who kissed her.  

Molly also had a very insatiable appetite for sex. Sherlock had not thought to deduce that, expecting intercourse with Molly to be largely about getting the act done – this assumption was made, obviously, prior to him being _involved_ with Molly.

He watched her humming as she put a plate of chocolate cookies down.

No, Molly would care about which man was putting his tongue down her throat. Molly cared about these things, absurdly enough.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked him with a smile.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said, in an effort to avoid telling her of his contemplation on her characteristics. Besides, Molly could not be allowed to know that _he_ cared about which man was putting his tongue down her throat.

* * *

 

Mr. Holmes had left for the remainder of the day to pursue a case.

Molly was sitting by the candlelight, darning. Normally this was something Anne did, however, Anne, in high spirits after a rather nice Christmas dinner – organised in the servant’s hall by Bertha and Margery – had gone to sleep with promises from Molly on the completion of the darning.

Molly didn’t mind. She was waiting for Mr. Holmes.

At around twelve at night, when Christmas had come and Molly had wearily rubbed her eyes, he came. Molly had just been debating on the prospect of going to sleep without meeting him or waiting a while to see Saint Nicholas when he entered the home.

“Oh, hello,” she said with a smile.

“Molly!” he said with a grin.

“Oh, goodness!” she said immediately.

“What? Oh, I was in the boxing ring. Chasing down a suspect – he thought he could get away.”

“Sherlock, your ribs are broken!” she exclaimed. “Not to mention your nose.”

“Scratches,” he waved. “Do you want to know about how I caught the man? It was excellent, Molly, I used the principles of degradation of food that you told me about.”

“Fascinating,” she said, alarmed. She ushered him in. “I’d love to hear about it while I tend to your injuries.”

“It was excellent, indeed,” said Mr. Holmes. Molly bit her lip, leading him upstairs. “The man was intelligent – _clever,_ indeed. The food being the way to fit the time was perfect, Molly, thank you for that.”

“Any time, Mr. Holmes,” she said, struggling under his weight.

“Why do you insist on calling me that?” he asked, cross.

“Force of habit,” she said, panting.

“You’re such a silly girl,” he said. Molly caught a waft of alcohol.

“Are you... _intoxicated?”_ she asked.

“That’s subjective.” Even intoxicated he was argumentative. “I did have to have a few before the boxing ring. It’s a bit of a ritual. John and I used to do it. He’s better at controlling me, though.”

“And I suppose Mr. Watson wasn’t there today?” asked Molly, opening the door and dragging him into the apartment.

“No. Stupid Mary,” said Mr. Holmes.

“Mary’s really nice.”

“I know,” he sighed plaintively. “And _you,_ as well. I _really_ dislike women who are nice. It completely disbalances everything.”

“I’m sure,” said Molly. She put him on the sofa and looked around for bandages.

“I will _never_ tell you where the bandages are!” said Mr. Holmes vehemently.

“Mr. Holmes, I work here as a maid. I’m fairly certain I know where the bandages are better than you do.”

“You’re fired,” he said.

Molly rolled her eyes. She took out the bandages from the cupboard, prodding Mr. Holmes to take off his clothes. When he refused, Molly glared at him and forcefully began taking them off.

“ _I’m_ fairly certain this is non-consensual,” said Mr. Holmes.

“Do be quiet, Mr. Holmes,” said Molly. She finished taking off his clothes and began to bandage his chest.

“Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper,” said Mr. Holmes as the clock struck twelve.

“Awfully sentimental of you,” commented Molly dryly. “There. Done.”

“Go to the mantelpiece, Molly. Just pick up the package kept there,” he instructed her. Molly frowned, but obliged. He didn’t even take the package from her. He nodded at her to open it.

Molly was confused. She tore open the brown paper, wondering what on earth was there in the large package.

There was one large brown box, with two books. Utterly bamboozled, she ignored the box in favour of the books. _A Midsummer’s Night Dream_ by William Shakespeare and _Sense and Sensibility_ by Jane Austen.

Molly herself had read neither. She had read Jane Austen, obviously, but she had never been able to read _Sense and Sensibility._

“If you really _must_ read very _bad_ romantic fiction, I insist that you bring a little quality into your reading material,” he informed her.

“I didn’t - _know ..._ that you liked Shakespeare _that_ much.”

“I didn’t,” he told her. “I thought Shakespeare was nothing that everyone had made him out to be. I find the opinion revised in light of recent experiences, however.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” Molly meant it. She had not had Christmas presents in a long time now, and this felt – different. “Please, give me a minute.” She had intended to give it to him tomorrow, however, she felt it necessary to give it right now.

She rushed downstairs and found the box in her room. Once again, she dashed upstairs, eagerly.

Mr. Holmes was already asleep.

She smiled fondly at him. The oddity of a man really _should_ sleep more often. She picked out a blanket and covered him – placing her box at the bottom of the couch.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” she said as she left the room.

The next morning, her Christmas present – a skull, incidentally – was placed on the mantelpiece as if it had always belonged there.

* * *

 

_[Scribbles from Molly Hooper’s notebooks, 1894]_

_The condition, therefore, becomes treatable – even the personality changes that occur due to the disease (Not all of us are lucky enough for that, however. Just as it is Mr. Holmes’ untreatable condition to be rude really depends on how long it has been since he has had a case)._

_Goodness, this was easier when I was not in love._

* * *

 

Mist covered the city, lying on it like a blanket which intended to choke out colours. January was a month of frozen windows and a frozen Mrs. Hudson, who refused to wash out clothes. Molly and Anne reluctantly took charge of the clothing, but they hated it: their hands would freeze and need immediate warming.

Molly wasn’t cleaning clothes at the moment, however. She was lying in her employer’s bed, with a book in her lap. Sherlock, on the other hand, was sitting beside her, his hands steepled together.

Occasionally, Molly would scribble in the margins.

“That’s not a very good habit, you know,” Mrs. Holmes told her.

“I will buy a new notebook at the end of the month,” Molly informed him.

“You could allow me to buy one,” he told her.

“Not on your life,” she said. “Please, return to your mind palace.”

Sherlock obliged.

Molly continued to scribble.

“Do you think a religious man would have any enemies?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said.

“Well, we both know that, but whom do you consider _likely_ to be one?”

“A young boy who did not have a very good experience during confession,” said Molly shrewdly. “Or even a girl. The old dame who was not allowed marriage because her husband had not been lost for long enough. Who knows?”

He propped himself on his elbows.

“Your mind happens to be a dark place,” he informed her.

“I cut up bodies, Mr. Holmes,” she informed him.

“You have a sunny disposition, however,” he frowned.

“So?”

He squinted at her. “Are you sure you’re not a serial killer?”

Molly’s mouth twitched. “Positive,” she said.

“Hmm,” he said. He leaned in, and Molly prepared herself – however, he ignored her lips. He kissed her on the neck, and Molly sighed happily.

“I think you’re a murderer,” he told her.

“No wonder you’re erect,” she told him cheekily.

“That’s _terrible,_ Miss Hooper. Now I shall have to find an adequate way to respond to you.”

His fingers were in her again. She gasped.

“Isn’t this enough?”

“Hardly,” he told her. He didn’t kiss her, even then. “I deny you the right to my lips. You will have to feel adequately apologetic.”

“Mercy,” she whispered.

“God will not be kind to you now, Miss Hooper,” he said, pulling at the laces of her dress.

* * *

 

_[Scribbles from Molly Hooper’s notebooks, 1895]_

_The process of childbirth is complicated, and should the birthing begin to look impossible (uncontrollable flow of blood, unaccountable pain, or the child being compromised due to various reasons – including the prevention of air), then a caesarean section is recommended._

_... I wonder why we women decide to go through this process. I wonder why God created us in so terrible a manner – what with the monthly blood, the birthing blood and all the other blood that women see. And if we were created with so many monstrous qualities, I wonder why we are not feared more? What caused people to shrug at the sight of monthly blood which comes in copious amounts?_

_Humans have a strange predisposition to rather violent images._

* * *

 

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I will be calling upon you in the near future, with regard to... well, wouldn’t you like to know? I did desire to come unannounced, yet, you deserved a little warning, I should think._

_Regards,_

_Irene Adler_

* * *

 

Sherlock watched the rain from outside the window. He was anxious for the woman to come, and the street outside did not look very promising.

He could imagine her in red – or black. Something tastefully lascivious. He could depend on her behaving a certain way more than he could depend on his brother being fond of baked goods.

She was predictable that way – admirable, obviously. Her logic was framed so perfectly inside a set-up which any man would understand – the independent, heart-stopping scarlet woman – a figure for suffragettes that would never be taken seriously, thanks to her sheer impossibility.

She created herself as a fantasy for men: something so absurd that she got away with it. Yet, between the shades of red and black, her intelligence slipped away to make some meaningful impact in the world of men.

She was dependable in red and black. He could trust her to be independent and outrageous, yet do it so intelligently that he would be left admiring her for what she had made: a personality which could exist powerfully in a masculine world.

“Ruminating on my death, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, and her voice was just the right tone of rich.

“What would you prefer for me to ruminate on?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“My body, hopefully.”

“Don’t they both fall on the same plane?” he asked.

She laughed. “The little death would be nice to experience again, if you wish it?” she asked.

“I’d prefer not to. It impedes the faculties.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Interesting. Yet, I can tell you have been having them for a while now.”

“I would _love_ to hear how you deduced that!”

“You can tell, Holmes,” she said with a smirk. The door opened, and Molly walked in, duster in hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said anxiously. “I didn’t know you had company, Mr. Holmes.”

He noticed the way her eyes had blinked at The Woman, in her scarlet dress with black trimmings. She gripped the duster. “Um – right. I’ll just – sorry –”

“Stay, dear,” said Irene.

“I’m sorry?” asked Sherlock. “My home, my staff.”

Irene was looking at him interestedly. “I wonder if your staff is always as informal as to clean while you are in the room.”

“I hardly have regular hours, Woman.”

Molly was raising his eyebrows at him.

“He – well, it’s not him. I was busy this morning, and so was Anne.”

“I wonder if your staff expects your guests to be just as informal?” asked Irene, and this time, there was a note of genuine curiosity. Sherlock wanted to stop Molly before she dug herself deeper, but Molly did not understand what he was trying to convey with his stoic and forbidding expression.

“You’re visiting Mr. Holmes, aren’t you?” she asked, frowning. “With a certain degree of familiarity. Anyone with any degree of familiarity to Mr. Holmes should probably not be expecting a very conventional atmosphere?”

This time, Irene Adler raised her eyebrows at Molly.

“Curious,” she said at the two of them.

“So, how long have you both been – _together?”_ asked The Woman.

Molly blanched and began to splutter. Sherlock looked at her passively.

“How does it matter to you? Upset at being outed?” he asked.

“You flatter me by thinking that you would consider me important enough to be jealous,” said Irene archly.

“Um,” said Molly.

“That’s a wonderful way of expressing your desire to be worthy of jealousy,” said Sherlock.

“And that’s a lovely compliment to pay to a woman. I wonder if this maid of yours is making you a better man, Mr. Holmes?”

“Heartbroken, are you?”

“Oh my _god,”_ said Molly, her eyes switching between The Woman and Sherlock. “Are you both _flirting_?”

Both of them turned to stare at her.

To be honest, Sherlock really _was_ expecting jealousy.

There was just incredulousness.

“You _are!”_ she said. “This is so strange. Please, continue – Miss?”

“Adler,” supplied The Woman.

“Yes – please, continue. This is so... _odd_. Can I spectate?”

“Molly!” said Sherlock.

The Woman was looking at Molly like she was a mildly interesting book.

“What? I _never_ get to see you flirt, Mr. Holmes!”

“I am _sleeping_ with you!” he said indignantly.

“Yes, pillow chatter isn’t the same as witty banter,” she said dismissively.

“What about _before?”_ he fumed. “When we _weren’t_ together?”

“What?” she blinked. “Come on, Mr. Holmes. We didn’t... _flirt._ We did that thing – in romantic books, where we pine. It’s not half as much fun, you have to admit.”

Sherlock was slowly giving up on this woman.

The Woman was now looking at Molly with complete enrapture.

“Dear, I would _love_ to let you watch,” she said. “Believe me. This is the most fun I have had since Lord – well, I won’t tell you his name. But essentially, yes – the most fun I had since he and I experimented in bed. I do have matters to discuss with ‘Mr. Holmes.’”

“Oh, alright,” said Molly cheerfully. “I’ll just bring some tea up?”

“Molly, I _didn’t_ ask you to bring tea up!” said Sherlock.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes isn’t a very good host,” Molly apologised, looking at the Woman.  “I’ll just bring some tea up?”

“Steep it for a bit, and two spoons of sugar, would you?”

* * *

 

The tea was safely in her hand. She stirred carefully while Mr. Holmes barely looked at his cup.

Her mother had always said, “You can trust men to underestimate you, Irene. Depend on that – _use_ it.”

She had been remarkably right, Irene reflected. Even Mr. Holmes, who did not underestimate anybody, had been beaten by her. To manipulate men, you had to always prescribe yourself in a framework that they understood: namely, a masculine one.

And when they trivialised you, you could get away with practically anything.

“Lovely girl,” complimented Irene.

She was being honest. Molly Hooper was an interesting little thing, even if Irene did not understand her entirely. She couldn’t care less whom Sherlock Holmes was fucking, but it was always nice to know that – well, that his pupils would dilate when he looked at the girl.

“How long has she been working for you while doing medicine?” she asked innocently.

He looked at her impassively.

“If you plan to threaten me by deducing what can easily be seen in Molly’s hands, then it will not work.”

Irene sat back in a relaxed posture.

“I had information for you,” she said.

“Give it. Leave.”

“It never works that easily, does it, Mr. Holmes?” she asked. Her smile was carefully calculated – she may have beaten Mr. Holmes once, but he did not make mistakes twice.

“What do you want?”

“I have business that takes me to America. Unfortunately, I need a little protection. Far too many enemies there, if you catch my drift.”

“A delicate flower like you? _Never_ ,” he said sarcastically. She was enjoying his lovesick attitude.

“Hypocrite. You’re the one who is half in love with the girl who works for you,” she said.

“Wonderful assumption,” said Mr. Holmes. “I’m sure you can find some more from whichever fantasy land you got this one out of.”

She put her cup down, and gripped his arm. He did not flinch, and he did not smile. She released her grip from his arm.

“Half in love indeed,” she said.

“My pulse did not race,” he said.

“No,” she said. “We’ve had enough encounters between us for you to _have_ a racing pulse, though, Mr. Holmes. I wonder why there is a significant absence of it this time?”

And it was then that his scowl became visible; he bared his teeth at her.

“I do not _love_ Molly Hooper.”

Irene Adler rolled her eyes. “I doubt that you would know what love is if it danced around you naked wearing a dish cloth. But have it your way – there happens to be a Lord who is currently doing some _very_ bad – and I mean _bad,_ Mr. Holmes - things. He’s been abusing his children. Luckily, the man seems to be your brother’s – well, rival. God knows that Mycroft does not have friends or _enemies._ Either way, I will tell you exactly how to break the case, if you convince your brother to give me the protection I need for America. Do we have an accord?”

* * *

 

He did not _love_ Molly Hooper, Sherlock reflected later at night.

He was fond of her adequately. He liked routine, hence he did not indulge with anyone else on the side. He liked the way she sighed in bed, or the way she would openly do the filthiest of things without regard for propriety anymore.

He did not _love_ her.

He was angry. He was angry at having compromised himself in such a way. He was angry that he had not been able to follow The Woman’s line of deduction.

“Who was she?” asked Molly interestedly.

“Irene Adler.”

“Interesting woman, Mr. Holmes,” said Molly. “Came down and told me that I ought to try something more suggestive for night wear.”

He shuddered to think what The Woman could come up with where Molly and night wear was concerned.

“I told her it didn’t really matter; I wouldn’t be able to carry it off. Nevertheless, sweet of her to suggest.”

“Molly!” he interrupted. “I’m going for a case.”

He left without the customary peck on her lips.

* * *

 

Sherlock came home and found no Molly waiting for him in his room, a book in her lap and a smile when she looked at him. He found it disconcerting.

She couldn’t have interpreted his physical affection that fast. He had often not kissed her when on a case. And this was an important one.

Perhaps she had thought it was important and left him to his devices for one night.

He _hated_ obsessing over what this woman did, thought, and felt.

The Woman had never been this irritating. It was a fine working relationship they had, and one that didn’t involve any unnecessary pulse racing.

 _His_ pulse was racing at the thought of Molly against his mouth, moaning.

That was what the problem was: it was too personal.

* * *

 

When Molly woke up to bring the breakfast the next morning, she was yawning.

“Oh, hello, Mr. H-H-Holmes,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry for not waiting last night.” Luckily they didn’t have any company that would be able to guess what she was saying.

He grunted in response.

“You see, I was reading a rather interesting paper – lost track of the time. Fell asleep around three.”

He was engrossed in his own papers, so Molly didn’t say anything, preferring to put down the breakfast and leave the room. She had a lot to do.

* * *

 

Mr. Holmes had been rather monosyllabic during the month of January. Ever since the Adler woman had given him whatever case he had obsessed over, he had been a machine. For two weeks, she had not seen him. It had been to her advantage, however. She had needed some time to get ahead of her course.

She had seen the papers for the way the case had turned out; Mr. Holmes had been far too busy to tell her. The Lord in question seemed like a despicable human being, and one who deserved whatever he got and more. She didn’t know how much better the Other Mr. Holmes was, but at least she could assume that he was not abusive towards children.

When Mr. Holmes came back, late in the week of February, she was waiting for him, Shakespeare in hand.

She didn’t understand Mr. Holmes’ new fascination with the Bard, but she had begun to appreciate it a little more. Shakespeare may have been laughing a lot when he wrote, but the ones who laughed at everything were almost always the ones who understood them best. He may be a genius, or he may be a joker, but whichever it was, he was incredibly smart.

Sherlock walked in, and Molly smiled at him. He didn’t seem very surprised to see her.

“I kept some dinner for you, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “You haven’t eaten in a while.”

“I ate yesterday,” he informed her.

She rolled her eyes.

Mr. Holmes sighed as if in physical pain, and sat down to eat the bowl of soup and bread Mrs. Hudson had left for him. He ate without a word.

“How was the case?” she asked interestedly.

Nothing came her way, no “The man was caught on the basis of his _appetite,_ Molly,” or “Did you know that you could catch killers if they became arrogant enough to tell you a history of their estates?” He just continued to eat, giving her a response to her question: “A good distraction.”

Molly kept her book away. “Well, Sherlock. I’m really tired, and so are you. Perhaps tomorrow?” she said hopefully. She got up, anticipating an early night. By early she meant one in the morning, which really showed what a nocturnal creature she had become.

“Sit,” he commanded.

Molly raised her eyebrows at him.

“Sit,” he repeated.

Molly felt a little nervous (and very aroused). She seated herself.

“Lift up your skirt.”

“Mr. Holmes – it’s been a long –”

“Molly. Skirt.”

Molly lifted her skirt up by the hem, so that it danced around her knees.

“Shy of you. Further,” he ordered.

Molly’s heart was pumping at twice the rate. She lifted her skirt up more, and her thighs began to show. He crossed the room in a few strides, and was between her legs.

“More,” he told her hoarsely.

Molly took a shuddering breath. She lifted her skirt up above her waist.

“Where would you like me to touch you, Molly Hooper?” he asked her softly.

“Everywhere,” she whispered.

“Generality is a scientist’s nightmare,” he ordered. His fingers touched her thighs, and she took another deep breath. 

“In between my legs,” she gasped.

He leaned in further, whispering into her ear: “Show me.”

* * *

 

It was only later, when she was in her own bed, replaying the moment that she realised.

He had not kissed her even once.

She brushed it out of her mind. It had been a long couple of weeks for him.

* * *

 

_Dear Meena,_

_How is married life treating you? Are you already tired of your husband, irritated with his ‘manly’ ways and considering taking up alcohol to numb the loneliness? Somehow, I cannot imagine that happening to you. Should Rajesh insinuate anything that involves you drowning your sorrows in alcohol, you’d be the first one to set his head straight._

_My letters to you have become more and more casual over our acquaintance. Whether that is a good thing or a bad one, you must decide for yourself, I suppose. Me, I am busy with what seems to be a small issue with Mr. Holmes._

_He is rather_ busy _these days. I haven’t had time to speak to him in a while now, and I am wondering why. Must be a good time for murder._

_Well, this was just a short note for you before I go for my class. Enjoy yourself, Meena, write back, and send for me whenever you feel the urge to drown sorrows in alcohol._

_Yours,_

_Molly_

* * *

 

The city spread in front of him again. This time, however, his contemplation wasn’t a heady post-fucking peace.

This time, he was on top of one of the abandoned buildings of London, watching the city that he had claimed ownership over.

Molly Hooper had become too loud in his head. Watson had been just as loud, but it had not been as disconcerting.

The tall towers of London spoke of history. Of some sense of past that humans idiotically held onto, but it made for a convenient distraction. He could look at the Parliament and think about everything that went into its creation.

England had history, that was certain. She just didn’t lose herself in the history. Well, she didn’t do so right now. Sherlock could think of a time in the near future when the country will be considered just as out-dated as it once considered the colonies. It was the way of the world: you either kept yourself in the current and tried not to lose pace, or you lost it entirely, and then you lost everything.

One day, England would fall. Whether it would be thanks to Mrs. Hudson leaving London, or whether it be because of ash and blood that was owed to them thanks to their violence.

But it would not be while Sherlock lived, and certainly not while Molly lived with him.

He glanced at the parliament again.

How many millions had died to build it, he thought.

*

Mr. Holmes came back rather early that day. He looked tired.

She smiled at him cheerfully. He did not smile back; instead, he climbed the stairs (looking, even then, exhausted). “Food, Molly.”

“Right away, Mr. Holmes.”

She saw an involuntary shudder in his body and frowned. Something was wrong. Or, perhaps, she was reading too much into it.

She brought up his dinner, and did not smile at him this time. She went downstairs again, to have a chat with Mrs. Hudson. Eventually, Anne went to bed, asking Molly if she wouldn’t mind clearing the dinner. Molly let both Mrs. Hudson and Anne go, and thought to herself that she had to now face the dragon in full irritability.

She went upstairs, and found Mr. Holmes finishing his dinner.

“Oh, good,” she said. “I’m glad you ate. You looked hungry, Sherlock.”

He frowned at her. “Positively _starving,”_ he said. Molly perked up at his tone. Perhaps he was just _tired._

“Um – Mr. Holmes – Sherlock. I have a test soon, so I can’t really spend time tonight,” she said.

He nodded briefly, preoccupied with whatever he had just solved. “Just as well, Molly. I am rather tired.”

She nodded. She got up, and hesitated on her way down. She didn’t _want_ to ask for a kiss, but she had never been so uneasy about doing it herself. He noticed the way she hesitated, and got up. His lips met hers briefly.

Molly felt a temporary relief, but went cold immediately after.

Mr. Holmes’ lips had never felt more... _uninviting._

* * *

 

_[Scribbles from Molly Hooper’s notebooks, 1895]_

_Various contagious diseases are passed by body contact – water borne diseases can cause epidemics of the source of the contagion is not located in time. Skin contact is one of the most common ways to transmit diseases – the nose and the lips are one of the primary conductors of the flu, or even common cold._

_I wonder if Mr. Holmes is unwell?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are the best! See you next week!


	10. Now Speak, That Thou Art Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes. Hello, everyone. As usual, good thoughts to people like Tingy who is hilarious with her betaing. Evil thoughts to weirdos like InMollysWildestDreams and TheLittleSparrow who harass for more and more chapters. 
> 
> Today we have Mary Darby Robinson in the title, with her poem "All Alone." Original line "And weep, that thou art left alone?"

He wasn’t sure what had happened, or why it had happened. All he knew was that he was hyper aware of Molly Hooper, and even more so of what she was thinking. He had never _tried,_ actively, to understand what was going on in her head – taking for granted that she was thinking what he needed her to think, and manipulating her harmlessly if she wasn’t.

But now, he didn’t know what _he_ thought, let alone what Molly Hooper thought. He did _not_ love her, he had decided. There was nothing about her to love – her face was plain, if very well angled. She was a simple girl, with a strong mind (if there really _was_ something to be admired).

And she was going to leave him.

Her term was coming to an end. March would soon come to an end, and after that, April would lead up to her main exams. In May, Molly would have her degree, and a licence to practice. She would have what she needed. She would no long be open to him.

And he was supposed to be _in love_ with this woman.

He was supposed to love a girl whom he could not be with. He was supposed to find her smile enchanting, he was supposed to feel like he wanted to protect her. He was supposed to feel like she was the only one for him.

Absurd.

She was going to leave him. That much was certain. He could confess, he was fond of her. He didn’t _want_ her to go. But her certainly wouldn’t cry the _buckets_ that lovers ought to. He would not care. He did not _need_ to care.

She would have to realise that he was an unfeeling man. That he could not give her what she wanted, or what the world promised her – and the world didn’t promise her much in the first place. She would realise that he was as cruel as reputation had told her, and she would realise that he would _not_ wait for her to realise her aspirations.

And then she would leave him.

It was this thought, more than the others, that made it almost impossible for him to bear her lips on his for longer than a minute. Despite that fact that he did _not_ love her.

* * *

 

“Well, what ‘appened?” asked Meena.

“I don’t _know!”_ said Molly.

“Come on. Men like him don’t just... _stop._ From what you’re telling me, he had a pretty big appetite for it.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “No more than I did.”

“Li’le minx that you are,” said Meena with a grin. She looked around the kitchen. “Are you sure we won’t be interrupted?”

“We’re talking about – fornicating. I doubt there are spies hearing what we’re saying. And everybody else has gone out – Anne’s off to town with the neighbour girl, Bertha and Margery are gone somewhere to buy supplies, and Mrs. Hudson is visiting her friend.”

“Knowing your _fancy_ arse lover, I think his brother might just send spies into his kitchen,” said Meena, looking around. “And why can’t you call it _fucking,_ Molly? You’ve done it enough now.”

Molly blushed. “I was born a Lady, you know. People called me ‘Miss’ and all that? It’s hard for me to say – well... _fuck.”_

Meena grinned at her. “Well, ‘scuse me ‘Miss’ Hooper. Very unladylike language being used there. So, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” despaired Molly.

“What’s he doing that is making you uneasy?” asked Meena. “That’s more specific, ain’t it? Try answering.”

“He – well. I don’t quite know how to explain it. It’s like he cannot bear to kiss me anymore. Not more than a minute, and he does it just to please me. He doesn’t mind... _fucking._ But there’s something so much more _clinical_ about it.”

Meena frowned.

“It makes me feel like an experiment,” finished Molly, with a sinking feeling in her heart.  

* * *

 

“Sir, I wonder if you intend to eat today?” she asked him with a smile.

“What? No, no thank you,” said Mr. Holmes. He continued reading whatever book he was reading.

Molly swallowed the lump in her throat.

She could just ask him. Say, ‘Sherlock, what’s wrong?’ Or, in his present mood, ‘Mr. Holmes, what’s wrong?’ She could stop the bloody heartache she felt every time she saw him not responding to her. She could ask him what she had done wrong.

She had no words, unfortunately.

* * *

 

Watson was writing on a few papers again.

“I say, Holmes,” he said suddenly. “Aren’t Molly’s final exams in May?”

“Hmm. Oh, yes,” said Sherlock. He schooled his heart to stop jumping every time someone said her name.

“Well, isn’t she leaving?” asked Watson.

“Yes. Pity,” added Sherlock. He was unconvincing.

“Come on. You like her.”

“I do. I like Anne, too,” said Sherlock.

“Yes, that’s the _same_ thing,” said Watson.

“They’re both maids, aren’t they?”

“We both know Molly’s your friend. She doesn’t come from bad stock, either.”

“Well, that’s as far as it goes, Watson,” said Sherlock cuttingly.

“You should help her find a job, anyway, Holmes,” said Watson.

“How am I an authority on this?”

“You have far more connexions, you do admit that. And after your achievement of bringing Mary into your bloody adventures, I’m fairly certain you don’t think Molly incapable because she is a woman.”

“Far from it, Watson,” said Sherlock. “I find her incapable because she is far too prone to attachment.”

* * *

 

Outside the door, Molly almost didn’t enter with the tea. Almost.

* * *

 

_[Scribbles from Molly Hooper’s Notebooks, 1895]_

_Consumption is virtually impossible to cure; however, it leaves very distinctive marks on the body upon autopsy. The lungs have to be thoroughly examined –_

_I feel like a wound which Mr. Holmes is trying to amputate. That’s a very unsophisticated way of speaking of the man, but I have no way of asking for what I want. Particularly if what I want is a little... tenderness?_

* * *

 

He was fucking her again, but Molly was responding out of habit. She breathed in and out as he continued to move with her body, and she gasped when she saw stars for the thousandth time.

He rolled off her, and it occurred to Molly that he had not kissed her _once_ throughout. She turned away and tears started off on their own.

* * *

 

She decided to stop dissecting this absolute and complete rubbish. Mr. Holmes was never meant to be something that she could depend on; they had never intended to carry on after she was done with her employ. She didn’t need to focus so much on a relationship which was clearly going nowhere.

She couldn’t deny that she was hurt, and even lesser that she was upset. But she had to organise herself: her final exams were coming, and she _refused_ to give up her career for a man, and one who was so frustrating.

She had known, for a while now, that she didn’t want him to be caring, affectionate, or tender. But this... _coldness_ was late in coming, and unexpected in the way it had hit her. She didn’t know why, when or how, and she didn’t know what to do about it either.

So she would focus on what she was good at: studying.

* * *

 

“So, ‘ow’re your preps going?” asked Meena.

“How _is_ your prep going,” Molly corrected.

“Whichever. I don’t care. Honestly, Molly. ‘Ow’s it going?”

“It’s all right.”

“You don’t look too well,” said Meena.

Molly glanced at her reflection in the glass of the cabinets. She could see what Meena meant; she did look very pale and dark circled. But thanks to her nocturnal cycle due to Mr. Holmes, she was using her lack of sleep very well now. Her notes were long and endless, subject to various revisions.

“Thanks,” said Molly in response to Meena.

“That’s a nice way to answer,” huffed Meena.

“You should see Sarah. She looks like she’s been fucking every night of the week.”

Meena smiled, but it didn’t really reach her eyes.

* * *

 

She was busy; she hadn’t noticed his behaviour. Her exams were coming, and he could see her preparing every minute of the day. Anne, Mrs. Hudson and the cook had all agreed to give her all the time possible – hence he barely saw her working. As a result, the cleaning had suffered (Anne wasn’t very _good_ at dusting).

She smiled at him tiredly when she saw him, and became busy again. Occasionally, he kissed her just to make her feel like nothing was amiss. He thought it was working, but she did frown once or twice. He hadn’t kissed her properly in a while, and by _god,_ he missed it.

He missed the way she would respond to him, as well. He missed the way she _sighed_ in bed, or the way she would smile at him in amusement if she said something particularly _clever._

He missed her out of _habit,_ he decided.

* * *

 

_[Scribbles from Molly Hooper’s Notebooks, 1895]_

  * _Dressing cuts, wounds or sores can be done with a solution of carbolic acid and equal parts glycerine._
  * _The use of alcohol for cleaning the wound, despite the pain it causes._
  * __Amputation, in case the wound begins to fester and degenerate.__

* * *




“Are you alright, Margaret?” asked Sarah kindly.

“Yes,” said Molly. “Nervous.”

“Cheer up,” she said happily. “This is the last one!”

“I know. What then?” Molly sighed.

“We look for jobs, or we get married.”

“Have someone in mind?” asked Molly curiously.

“Yes,” said Sarah, and she looked away happily. “Charles proposed.”

“I wish you happiness, Sarah,” said Molly.

“You too, Margaret. Come for the wedding, please?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Molly, blinking to avoid the wetness in her eyes.

* * *

 

Molly trudged back to Baker Street, tired out. Her papers had gone very well, she thought. Apart from one or two messes where the identification of diseases was concerned, she felt like she had done a decent job. She was happy, on some level – exhausted, but happy.

As soon as she entered, Mrs. Hudson rushed to her. “There you are, dear!” she exclaimed. Molly smiled wanly. “You’re done!” said Mrs. Hudson. Molly couldn’t bring herself to smile _more._

“Come in,” said Anne excitedly. “I made you _cake,_ Molly!”

“You are a dear,” said Molly with yet another smile.

“And now, you must have a chat with us for a while,” said Mrs. Hudson. “It has been too long, really, Molly. It does not do for a young girl like yourself to bury herself so completely in books.”

“Mrs. Hudson –” said Molly. “I’m so sorry, but I am _really_ tired. I would like to rest, really.”

Mrs. Hudson looked at Molly’s pale face, her sunken eyes. “Yes, dear, of course. Go in, at once. Go get some sleep.”

As soon as she entered her room, Molly began to cry quietly into her pillow. She was so _tired._

* * *

 

She heard him as he came in. She had always _known_ subconsciously, when he was coming home. Even when she was busy with her exams.

He went upstairs, and Molly followed him silently.

“Congratulations,” he said. She could almost detect a bitterness, but she felt like she had imagined it. “You are soon not going to be under my employ.”

Molly didn’t say anything.

What was she supposed to ask for? His forgiveness, for a crime she didn’t know she had committed? His _love?_ His friendship? His anger?

She did not want much. She did not want him to pledge himself to her. All she wanted was a kiss.

“Well, Miss Hooper?” he asked in his clinical voice. “What would you like as reward?”

She had never felt more like the whore she would be labelled, if anyone found out about... _this._

She was so terribly desperate to have _him_ back. “A kiss?” she asked softly. He did not say anything, his back still to her. She reached out – her hands on his shoulders. He shuddered at her touch, and Molly ignored it. She brushed her fingers across his lips, remembering the way they were shaped. His lips parted; Molly felt that _yearning_ again.

She was acting entirely on instinct. She did not _know_ how to ask for this; she did not know what she was asking. He did not stop her.

She reached for him, kissing him. Her lips parted gently, and she did not use her tongue at all. His arms came around her – this time, Molly shuddered. This felt so _familiar –_ so correct.

Her breathing came short. Surprisingly, so did his.

She did not undo his clothing _fast._ Every button was done away with slowly, the cravat gotten rid off eventually. She continued to kiss him in the way that she _wanted_ him for tonight. He gasped – he was responding.

This time, they were both on uncharted waters. Molly moved with instinct – he did the same. There was no urgency, nor languidness. There was a question on Molly’s side, yet, it was not being answered by him.

* * *

 

They finished, and Molly touched his face again. They were lying on the couch, her body sweaty. His arms were around her – Molly decided that she had nothing to lose.

“Mr. Holmes – what’s – what’s wrong?”

He did not say anything – however, his body tensed. Molly felt cold – down her spine and till her toes.

“What?” he asked her. His arm abandoned her.

“Mr. Holmes, you have not looked me in the eye for months now,” she pointed out.

“And is it my _duty_ to look you in the eye?” he asked her cruelly. “Do I owe it to you?”

“No, sir,” she said. The titles were putting spaces between them, she realised. “I thought we were friends?”

“One does not befriend their maids,” said Sherlock. He got up from the couch. “You know that, Molly.”

Molly felt like crying. “Please – Mr. Holmes. You and I both know that’s a lie.”

“What is?”

“I do not want us to part enemies.”

“And what _do_ you want, Miss Hooper?” asked Sherlock. “What do you want? You want kindness? Happiness? A family? Affection? Love? We both knew that it was _impossible.”_

“Yes,” said Molly. Her tears began to come out in earnest. “But we told ourselves that we would not let it matter.”

“Then this is exactly what I am doing, Molly Hooper,” said Sherlock coldly. “I am allowing it not to matter. I am allowing this to be exactly what it was: and experiment.”

“You cannot mean that!” said Molly, getting up. “You _cannot!”_

“Well, what did you expect? Did you want to be part of this with the expectation that we would fall in love? That we would eventually get married?”

“I did not want that!” Molly yelled. Her cheeks were stained. “N- _Never.”_

“Then what? Have I not treated you exactly as I would a maid? Have I ever made you feel lesser?”

“You are right _now,_ Mr. Holmes!” Molly cried. “Please – stop.”

He threw a blanket at her as he wore his robe. Molly wrapped it around herself.

“This is me, Molly,” he said coldly. “I do not _feel._ I do not marry women I fuck, or Irene Adler would have been considerably safer. Did you not _know_ this?”

Molly pushed her hair, sitting on the couch again. “I went into this knowing that.”

“You knew that I do not love, didn’t you? Yet you expected.”

“I expected _nothing!”_ said Molly, her eyes red. “I expected _nothing,_ I assure you. I was already in love with you when I went into this, and I did not _expect_ you to reciprocate.”

He had frozen.

“You did not _know,_ Mr. Holmes?” she asked, her voice watery. “Did you not know that I loved you? That I cared to be with you? That I went into this knowing that I would never get the same?”

“You loved an _idea,”_ he told her. “And image. A mirage. A shadow on the wall.”

Molly laughed without humour. “I loved a man who liked his books put in the organisation I had made for him. I loved a man who solved murders. I loved a man who did not love, but did try to _care._ I loved a man who had the decency to kiss me _well._ I loved a man who did not eat, who would not sleep – and who was neglectful of me when he was in the middle of a mystery. I loved him _knowing_ this, and _despite_ this. I did not expect a love story from you, Sherlock. But I did expect courtesy.”

Sherlock did not say anything.

“Perhaps I did love an _image,”_ she said. “Perhaps. But you cannot deny that while I did love an image of you, I did love one version of _you_.”

Again, he said nothing. Instead, he walked away from her.

“You better leave,” he said as he went to his bedroom.

“Consider this my notice, ‘Mr. Holmes’.”

He turned around abruptly. “You _knew_ what you were getting into,” he said, approaching her. “You _knew._ You _had_ to leave. You fell in love with a man like me, and you _knew.”_

“I fell in love with a man like you, yes,” Molly breathed. Her eyes were still teary, and it did not help in showing how upset she was. “I did not account for the same man hurting me this way. Of all the people I thought would hurt me. And you did it out of loneliness.”

“ _I,”_ he exploded. “Am _not_ lonely, Molly Hooper.”

She leaned in further. “How would you know?”

And with that, she left.

* * *

 

_[Scribbles from Molly Hooper’s Notebooks, 1895]_

_What have I done?_

* * *

* * *

 

_Dear Molly,_

_We would be very pleased to have you over the summer! John and I have spoken about it and we agree that it is for the best. You can see if you find someone you want to marry, or choose to take up a job. We are very happy that you are coming._

_Of course, you really ought not to address letters to both of us, sister dear. We were both operating under the assumption that the other did not know of our correspondence. Well, I was operating with the knowledge of John’s correspondence with you – however, he did not know of mine. It was very surprisingly for him, and you really ought to know better. Husbands and wives have endless little secrets from each other. Why, sometimes, a whole marriage can go by without one knowing if the other loves you._

_Thomas is eager to see you, of course. He has grown very much, and now will even endeavour to remember you. You should visit more often to engrave yourself in his memory. Heaven only knows that John’s sisters do – and I’d like Thomas to have a little from my side as well, what with Our mother and father both gone._

_John would like to add that he wants you to continue with your career, and insists that you cannot stay for too long – unless, of course, you_ do _get married. Well, either way – I am just pleased (which is very shocking, I must say) that you are coming. To celebrate the end of your education, we will buy you a new gown._

_And now I must go, Molly. Write soon, tell us of all the details of your coming. We will be waiting for your letter._

_With love,_

_Elizabeth Ashford_

* * *

* * *

 

“Dear, must you leave so soon?” asked Mrs. Hudson. “You could stay a while, get a job.”

“Lizzie is pregnant again, Mrs. Hudson,” said Molly. “I can apply from Newcastle itself. It gives me some time with her before my days with holidays become numbered.”

“Well, I _wish_ you didn’t have to go,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“Me _too,”_ said Anne. “Molly, why’d you have to leave?”

Molly just smiled. “Don’t get in too much trouble, Anne.”

“What with you gone?” asked Anne with a sigh. “No, I don’t see it happening.”

“Well,” said Molly. “I must leave now. Thank you – for _everything –_ Mrs. Hudson.”

She hugged Mrs. Hudson tightly. Mrs. Hudson looked like she was a little bit in tears. Molly would be too, but she hadn’t cried in a while. Her eyes needed a little rest.

* * *

 

He was watching her leave. Watson was coming in – he stopped to talk to Molly. She smiled at him, and Sherlock felt his throat constricting.

Watson finally stopped talking to her, and came upstairs. “Well, your maid is leaving. Actually lasted two years, I’m amazed.”

Sherlock grunted. Molly got into the carriage, and it trundled away. Just as it left, he caught a glimpse of a wisp of brown hair through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, I have happy endings in mind :) 
> 
> Reviews are the best thing created by God.


	11. Breathe Not Her Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO. SO MANY SAD COMMENTS AND REVIEWS. I REVELLED IN THEM. 
> 
> I mean, it was extremely satisfying as a writer to see people so - 
> 
> Eh, I just revelled in them. So many people wanted to slap Sherlock that I almost wondered if he deserved a happy ending. HE DOES, THOUGH. HE'S A FLUFFY EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED BABY. 
> 
> Anyway, today we have Thomas Moore in the title with the original line being "O breath not his name." Bringing in the Irish. 
> 
> On another note, there's just one chapter left till the end after this one. I feel so empty??? Anyway, let's go on.

_Dear Elizabeth,_

_I have a few letters which I have neglected to post. Please, post the ones addressed to Mr. Williams, and to Mr. Bell. My writing table also contains a few papers that need to be returned to their drawers. Aside from that, take care, my dear. I will return from London as soon as it is in my power._

_Eat healthy, for the baby needs all the strength it can get. This time, Elizabeth – I want a girl._

_On another note, I wanted to ask you how feasible it would be to cheer Margaret up with some of her favourite food. I will do my level best to get whatever she likes from London, Elizabeth – including whatever you put in that list of yours. She has been looking_ extremely _off colour for the past few days._

_I hope I see you soon._

_Yours,_

_John Ashford_

* * *

 

Sherlock ignored the destruction of his room ever since he had stopped allowing Mrs. Hudson or Anne to clean it. His possessions were in a permanent state of needing dusting, and Sherlock was smoking to help them along.

Molly Hooper had been crying. He had deduced that she was a crier, but she had made it such a point not to do so around him that seeing her cry had made him feel cold. She had been _crying_ because of _him._ There was something very terrifying about a Molly Hooper who could be brought to tears because of him.

He refused to acknowledge how empty the house felt without... _her._ He did want her back, but he chalked it up (as savagely as possible) to the remnants of the sentiment that had brought him to this position.

Apart from that, distractions were constantly needed. Any case was being welcomed with open arms for now, rating be damned. He didn’t much care for how boring it was – because sometimes, when he was alone, he could swear that his mind had become more quiet. This was a terrible possibility, because it only meant that he had become _soft_ with whatever the woman had done to him.

This was more disgusting than everything else combined, if he could be honest. What was he supposed to do, the spurned lover? Sit, brood, think to himself about how beautiful the colour of her cheeks was? Wonder at how much they could have done together? Picture their family together?

It was ridiculous even _pretending_ to do those things. Sherlock did not know what to say or who to say it to, but he knew for a fact that he was _not_ going to be a Petrarchan lover of the cruel mistress. Neither he nor Molly fit the stereotype correctly.

* * *

 

She was lying down on the window seat, ignoring the impropriety of being found in such a position. She wanted to be alone, but Lizzie was insisting on being with her a lot more these days. Then again, whenever Molly _was_ alone, all she wanted was company. When she had company, she felt like jumping off the tallest towers of London.

She ignored Jane Austen, for her version of romance was terribly _convenient._ She knew this was not true, but it was easier to see the happy resolution in _Pride and Prejudice_ coming from the moment Mr. Darcy said that he was ruminating on how pretty Elizabeth’s eyes were. It was easy to allow her heart to flutter when Captain Wentworth and Anne were together. It was a lot harder to get rid of the way her heart had started beating harder and faster at everything Sherlock did.

If heartache could be classified, it was not the way the woman looked coolly into the window distance while getting away from her _One True Love_ by escaping into the country where her sister (mentioned, obviously, a few chapters prior to her entry), would _conveniently_ be living.

Of course, there _had_ to be a scene where the sister was asking just what was wrong with the girl, to prove to her, without a doubt, that yes, she had been in love with the _One True Love._

No, heartache was not in these set scenes of romantic stories. Heartache lay in the way she itched to pick up Shakespeare again, but did not – out of anger. Heartache lay in the curiously empty way she considered that she _had_ loved the _‘One True Love’_ and how ridiculous life was when played by intelligent rules.

Heartache lay not in the unhappiness, but in the loneliness which you revelled in, but wanted gone.

* * *

 

“Well, Mr. Cubitt?” asked Sherlock. “What inane trouble with your wife brings you to this part of town?”

“I – how did you know, Mr. Holmes?”

“Don’t give him a chance, sir,” said Watson wearily on his side. “He has been bitter for a while now and prone to breaking people down to a point where the man would consider the axe murderer that is after them preferable to Mr. Holmes as a solution.”

Sherlock glared at Watson.

“Well, I have an American wife – Elsie Patrick was her maiden name,” said the slightly plump man slowly.

“Don’t they _always_ have an American wife?” asked Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

“Behave, Holmes,” said Watson darkly.

“Either way – she received this message which has been driving her to distraction, Mr. Holmes –”

Sherlock looked at the script with the small men boredly. The cipher code wasn’t particularly _interesting_ but the use of small dancing men was curious.

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson was watching as Anne continued to darn her stockings.

“All I’m saying is that he must have been really fond of her, Mrs. Hudson,” she said.

“You and your _tongue,_ young lady,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Mr. Holmes often goes without meals and sleep.”

“Not _this_ frequently,” said Anne. “I’d say he was heartbroken. Like in the stupid romance novels Molly read.”

“Yes, well, life is more than that, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“Why should it be? They fall in love, they get married – they have children. Disgusting, I agree – but apt.”

Mrs. Hudson would like to believe so. But she would prefer to not depend on it.

“Oh, don’t take me seriously, Mrs. Hudson. I hardly ever take myself seriously.”

* * *

 

_Dear Doctor Hooper,_

_We are pleased to say that we have accepted your application to St Bartholomew’s hospital. You will be expected by August, where your training period under Doctor Anderson will begin._

_Yours &c, _

_Doctor Michael Stamford_

* * *

 

_Dear Doctor Hooper,_

_Your recommendation by Doctor John Watson makes us very hopeful of your position in St Bartholomew’s. Doctor Watson is a highly esteemed Doctor, and one who is regarded very highly due to his association with the Army and with Mr. Holmes. Mycroft Holmes requested that your position be made permanent, however, I would like to discuss the details of your position and acceptance in St Bartholomew’s. I will, unfortunately, have to venture into a more informal territory frequently for some reasons._

_For one, your circumstances are unique for our time. However, since both Detective Inspector Lestrade and Doctor Watson recommended you highly, we were inclined to look into your application with more interest than normal. Doctor Anderson has raised no objection to your entry into the hospital (once again, having seen you work fairly frequently) as long as you continued to work with Mr. Holmes with the same efficiency that you have for the last two years._

_You are expected to assist in Scotland Yard’s investigations whenever you are needed. Doctor Anderson informs me that you are competent in this area. Regarding your pay and other important matters, we would be pleased if we could see you sometime during July to discuss them and formalise them._

_Thanking you,_

_Doctor Michael Stamford_

* * *

 

“So, missing Molly Hooper?” asked Mary.

“Just as much as you are about to miss your Knight, Mary,” said Sherlock.

“I’m positively heartbroken,” deadpanned Mary.

“You should be. Soon, you will lose.”

“Your problem with chess, Mr. Holmes, is the way you estimate the pieces. The Knight is unique in the way he moves, hence take him out. The Queen is powerful in the way she can influence almost everything, so destroy her before she can cause too much havoc.”

“And right now, you find yourself without two Camels, a Knight, and a Rook. How do you propose to win this time?” Sherlock leaned back on his chair.

Mary smiled. “You’ve done a very good job. Clearly, you’re trying your best to prove your mental strength to me. But you underestimate how many pawns I have killed of yours, and how many remain with me.”

“How does that matter?” asked Sherlock. “Pawns are useful only for defending your side.”

“Exactly,” said Mary. One of her pawns reached the end of the board, and Sherlock frowned as Mary’s Knight came back to life. “Check,” she said.

Sherlock swore, and shifted his king.

Mary shifted another pawn to the end of the board, and she created a second Queen.

“Check,” she repeated.

Sherlock glared at her. He shifted his king.

Yet another pawn managed to reach the end of the board. There was another Rook on Mary’s side. “Checkmate,” she said.

He frowned.

“You always underestimate what a source of strength a pawn can be, Sherlock,” sang Mary. “How _powerful_ they can become when shoved in the right direction.”

“Any other tips?” he asked through his teeth.

“Stop sacrificing your Queen just because it is supposed to be ‘good strategy’,” said Mary with a grin. “It’s useless when you do it just for that, and it’s becoming very _old_ and predictable.”

* * *

 

The atmosphere in the Ashford parlour was tense. Elizabeth Ashford was glaring at her sister while John looked upset and uncertain.

“You are _not_ going to London to live alone!” said Lizzie angrily.

“And why should I not?” asked Molly. “Many people do. Many _women_ do!”

“You are not one of those cycle riding hobbledehoys, Molly Hooper!” said Lizzie.

“And what’s so terrible about being a cycle riding hobbledehoy?” asked Molly, just as angry.

John was watching her like she had declared that she was pregnant with the anti-Christ.

“It’s not _proper!”_ said Lizzie.

“Neither is a woman having a job, but here I am. If I _am_ breaking rules, I might as well break them _all.”_

“She will not listen to reason, John,” said Lizzie, finally.

“Elizabeth,” said John deliberately. “While I agree with whatever you are saying, I don’t think she will listen to me any more than she will listen to reason.”

“Astute,” Molly commented.

“Allow her to go,” said John. “It is, after all, her life. She is allowed to live the way she sees fit. It may not be a good way, but that will be her problem.”

“Precisely,” said Molly. “And Doctor Stamford is offering an excellent pay. Sarah’s aunt owns the apartment I intend to rent, and she’s giving me a good price. I will see whether or not it is a good way to live myself.”

“It may be too late to return to the good way if you do this, Molly,” said Lizzie.

“That,” said Molly, “will be my problem.”

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes was in his room (one which had finally been cleaned by Anne). He was stoutly ignoring his lack of cases, the boredom which had _not_ set in and the fact that his mind was wandering where he strictly did _not_ want it going.

He stretched on his bed, and considered dying. Or making himself a solution which involved enhancers. For a very brief moment, Molly’s disappointed face came into his vision, and he wrenched himself away from that image. He savagely wondered whether or not he should do what she would _hate_ just for the sake of it.

There was a knock on the door. “Mr. Holmes?” said Mrs. Hudson. “There is a woman here to see you.”

“I don’t care,” he said.

“I’m afraid she’s rather insistent,” said Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock opened the door a crack, intent on giving Mrs. Hudson a piece of his mind, however – just behind Mrs. Hudson stood Irene Adler.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he asked rudely. Mrs. Hudson bowed out of the room.

“Interestingly, I was going to ask you that,” she said. “There have been disturbing rumours for the last few days that you, Mr. Holmes, have been taking the most deplorable of cases.”

“How does it matter to _you?”_ he asked.

“Considering how deeply involved in the criminal world I am, I would consider it my business to know why you are taking simple robberies.”

“That is _not_ why you are here, Woman,” said Sherlock with gritted teeth. He opened the door, walking outside.

Irene Adler smirked at him. “I was here because I wanted to ask you how long you plan to continue your heartache, Mr. Holmes. My spies have been thrown off, the criminal world is wondering, and I was just... _nosy._ Unlike most of your friends, I am better at reading your ‘heartache.’ _”_

“Heartache?” he asked her vehemently. “Not everything is heartache.”

“Tell me that your pulse _will_ race if I touch you now,” she said.

 “That is _not_ an adequate way to measure _heartache,_ Miss Adler.”

“No, an adequate way would be if you could perform, should we try to fuck right now.”

“Leave,” he told her in no uncertain words.

“You think you have this under your thumb, don’t you?” said Irene. “That you will forget her, that you will eventually not obsess over the way her accent would heighten when she was nervous. That you won’t be reminded of the way she smiles or speaks or any of that other rubbish. You won’t, Mr. Holmes. Not for lack of motivation or trying, or even underestimation of how much better it would be if she was with you. You will fail because swallow your problem whole and ignore it, schooling your mind in a way that makes the _outburst_ more probable than the eventual cure.”

“It would not be better if Molly Hooper was with me,” said Sherlock. “We are both better off that way.”

Irene laughed. “You may be taking endless cases, Mr. Holmes. You may be solving all of them. But in some ways, you need her. For instance, you did not even notice that I was wearing _blue_ today.”

And with that, she turned to leave.

* * *

 

_[Scribbles from Molly Hooper’s Notebooks, 1895]_

_Items needed for London:_

  * _Bed sheets, pillows, pillow covers and other linens._
  * _Towels and other items for the toilet._
  * _Some new working dresses._
  * _New curtains._
  * _Get decent food first, Molly._
  * __Stop writing in my notebooks, Lizzie.__

* * *




It had been a difficult summer. It had been a difficult summer of trying, paradoxically, to commit to memory Sherlock and forget him altogether. Meena had said nothing to her, chattering about Rajesh, about her job and how nice it was to have Molly back. All of this was interspersed with a lot of swearing and a lot of mocking Molly for being Molly.

“ _Margaret ‘_ Ooper. _Margaret._ Why, Miss _Margaret_ ‘Ooper, would you like to accompany me to the ball and wear the best silks of _China?”_

“I knew I shouldn’t have discussed trade routes with you,” said Molly more to herself.

“Molly, what’re you expecting tomorrow?”

“Murder,” Molly smiled. “Hopefully.”

“You know, if you smile like that when you say ‘murder’ then everything is going to go to dust. I’ll see you on the asylum part of the ‘ospital.”

Molly childishly stuck her tongue out at Meena.

“That’s very ladylike, _Margaret_ ,” snickered Meena.

“Well, murder isn’t ladylike either,” Molly said.

“Breaking all the rules?” asked Meena.

“All the rules.”

* * *

 

“Molly?” asked Meena, when they had done a good job with most of the apartment.

“Yes?” asked Molly, her head hurting.

“What happens when ‘ _ee_ comes in?”

“I don’t know,” Molly sighed. “I’ll burst into tears, knowing myself.”

“You must _not!”_ declared Meena. “Find your dignity, you idiot girl. You are Molly ‘ _Ooper._ You’re a fucking _female doctor.”_

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” snapped Molly. “I’ve missed you, Sherlock. I thought about you enough for my sister to think I was going clinically insane. I thought of you when I saw blood, birds and ash. And _bees.”_

Meena rolled her eyes. “No. You will be what you are best at. You are going to be Molly ‘Ooper.”

“That’s original, Meena,” said Molly.

“Listen to me.”

“What?” asked Molly angrily. “Be cruel? Be angry? Show him what he missed?”

“What _bad_ magazine romance are you reading _now?”_ demanded Meena. “You will do none of those things. You will be polite. Professional. You will show ‘im that you don’t mind talking about your previous relationship with ‘im.”

“Uncaring?” asked Molly.

“Not... _exactly,”_ said Meena delicately. “You ‘ave to strike balance, Molly. You ‘ave to make him believe that you are not thinking about ‘im anymore. At the same time, show ‘im that you have assimilated your emotional conflict where ‘ee is concerned _so well_ that it does not bother you that much now. You ‘ave to be how you are with me, or with Doctor Watson.”

“But I care about you and Doctor Watson,” said Molly earnestly.

“Ex- _actly,”_ said Meena, jumping to her feet. “You ‘ave to be same Molly ‘Ooper. Wears her heart on her sleeve. _But_ while being professional. You ‘ave to show ‘im that you _can_ separate your emotions from work, and you can do it better than ‘im.”

Molly tilted her head. “That is so complicated that I have forgotten what we were talking about.”

“Professional, but caring. Kind, but cruel. The balance, Molly ‘Ooper. The balance.”

* * *

 

The woman had been dressed to the murder _before_ it. There was a very _serial killer_ aura to the case that Sherlock was finding extremely tempting. He was excited – his heart was racing. Watson was trying to keep up with him. He felt like himself for the first time in a _long_ time.

“Right, Watson. I need you to track down other all her other female friends. Every single one of them. Find out where they are, who they are with and what level of protection they have.”

“And you?” asked Watson as he put on his coat.

“I’m heading to the morgue. We have to make sure Anderson doesn’t damage the body too much.”

Sherlock called for a cab, and began to head down to the hospital almost immediately. Watson could be seen reaching out to go to the police station, or the victim’s home for all her contacts. Sherlock did hope that Watson’s incompetence didn’t get the better of him. He was saving Mary for a little undercover work that will _inevitably_ be needed.

He reached the morgue, still in a hurry. As soon as he entered, he examined the body.

“Oh. It’s _you,”_ said Anderson.

“Good to see you, Holmes,” said Lestrade. “That’s her,” he added, nodding to the body.

“Yes, _thank you_ Lestrade,” said Sherlock sarcastically.

Lestrade just raised his eyebrows. Someone came in to give the Detective a message, and Sherlock focussed on how well the body had been dissected.

“Right, Holmes, I’ll be back in a minute.”

“This isn’t done by you,” said Sherlock to Anderson.

“Well guessed,” said Anderson. It was at this moment that the universe decided to throw a cliché at him _all over again._

When Molly Hooper walked into the room, Sherlock was certain that he knew what the unwritten monologue of Mr. Darcy’s head was like when he met Elizabeth Bennet in _his_ home.

“Oh, hello,” said Molly looking at him and smiling gently. Sherlock wanted to gnash his teeth, but he was a little too shocked.

“Doctor Anderson told me you were coming in, Mr. Holmes,” she said politely. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Sherlock paused. She sounded so _normal._ “He failed to – mention it to _me,”_ said Sherlock, clearing his throat for lack of better things to say.

“I presume that he expected you to be aware of my job here, since Doctor Watson recommended me and our personal association as well,” said Molly, staring at her notes.

Anderson _knew?_ He _knew?_ Had Molly _told_ him?

“Personal association?” he asked, his voice sharper than he needed it to be.

“Well,” she laughed nervously. “We have worked together for two years now, Mr. Holmes.”

“Right,” he said. “Of course.”

“Have you both not been talking?” asked Anderson. He looked surprised.  

“One does not befriend their maids, Doctor Anderson,” she said with a grin. Sherlock’s eyes swivelled to look at her. He didn’t see any bitterness – only amusement. She smiled at him again, and he got the queasy sensation that she was sharing a joke with them.

“Not you two,” countered Anderson. “You would finish each other’s sentences.”

“I spent the summer with my sister, Doctor,” said Molly, still smiling. “Did you _expect_ Mr. Holmes to write to me?”

“No,” grudged Anderson. Sherlock had to compliment Molly on her quick thinking, when he remembered that they weren’t on speaking terms. Weren’t they on speaking terms? He couldn’t tell – her astounding normalcy had completely derailed him. He couldn’t understand her; he didn’t know what on _earth_ was going through her head anymore.

“Miss Hooper – ” began Sherlock, eager to return to the world of solid _fact_ and no conflicting emotions which involved whether or not Molly Hooper was willing to talk to him or not.

“Doctor,” she said.

“What?”

“Doctor Hooper,” she corrected. “No longer ‘Miss.’”

He could not _believe_ she corrected him.

He could not _believe_ how erotic ‘Doctor Hooper’ sounded. It was at this point that his body experienced _yet_ another betrayal by his brain.

He was aroused by her lab attire. God help him.

* * *

 

He felt like shooting the wall again.

The case was solvable, and he had already deduced what he could. He was now considering two things: how to find the killer faster, and whether Molly Hooper was happy to see him.

A few months ago, he would have said that she didn’t want to see his face again. However, today – he wasn’t so sure. She seemed so calm and collected, so _normal._ As if nothing he had done had affected her more than she had needed it to affect her. It was very disconcerting.

It made him feel like – an experiment. With interesting side effects, of course. But just that – an experiment.

* * *

 

Molly was breathing in and out repeatedly.

“There, there,” said Meena. “You showed ‘im.”

“Did I?” panicked Molly.

“Did you make sense?”

“I think so. Doctor Anderson looked at him funny, not me.”

“There you go,” said Meena.

“My heart was going at twice the speed, Meena.”

“I should say you knew, being a student of _medicine_ and all that.” said Meena with a sly grin.

Molly glared at her.

“What did you say to ‘im? ‘ _Doctor’_ ‘Ooper? _Doctor._ My Molly, already quite grown up.”

“It was an _accident,”_ she said.

“Or a little bit of well deserved viciousness from you,” said Meena. “Speakin’ of medicine. I’m pregnant.”

Molly paused. She stared at Meena. “Nice of you to tell me.”

“I did. Right now. Did you not hear me?”

“You could have told me _earlier!”_ declared Molly. “And maybe with a little bit of ceremony!”

Meena guffawed. “You really do have _fancy_ ideas, _Miss_ Molly ‘Ooper. We don’t go around with fancy letters and fancy dinner parties to announce pregnancies.”

“Still...” Molly trailed off. “You’re ridiculous, Meena.”

“Drink your tea, _Doctor_ Molly ‘Ooper,” smirked Meena.

* * *

 

“Another one of them?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes, sir,” said Molly. “Miss Wentworth was clearly dying. Consumption.”

“He’s targeting women who are dying of terminal diseases alone, dressing them up in motley collection of clothes, and then shooting them through the head. Man of excellent moral standing,” muttered Sherlock.

Molly licked her lips. She felt parched. Her throat tended to dry while her heart raced when she saw him – even now.

“By all means, Miss Hooper. Drink water,” he rolled his eyes.

Molly felt a stab of anger, but she ignored it. She didn’t bother correcting him with the Miss and Doctor.

* * *

 

Molly was examining the body closely. She had noticed that the woman had gripped, very tightly, a ring in her hand. It did not have any distinctive marks on it. A simple gold band would not mean much, but Molly was certain that this time the killer had left something more recognisable on the body.

“Miss Hooper?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Could you please stop repeatedly looking at the body with the hope of finding something new?” he asked. Molly shut her eyes and begged patience from God almighty.

“What would you have me do, Mr. Holmes?” she gritted out.

“Tea, please. If you do intend to do something useful. Milk, two sugars.”

Molly put her scalpel down, glaring at him. “By all means. Perhaps you can dissect the body and find what disease _she_ had.”

* * *

 

He was being cruel to her, as part of his new strategy. She hated it, mainly because using her as a glorified errand boy or secretary was something most of her colleagues were doing already. Doctor Anderson, surprisingly, was one of the few people who _hadn’t._ He did have a lot more scepticism for whatever she found than the male colleagues, but he didn’t ask her for _‘milk, two sugars.’_

Then again, Sherlock treated _John_ that way. She was perhaps not used to it, because she was his house maid before, expected to run the errands he threw at her.

Even so. He ignored her with perseverance that Meena would be proud of. Molly didn’t know what to make of it. She wanted to shake him out of his cold cruelty, to see the kinder man who was affectionate in his own bizarre way.

But she didn’t know what she would do _after_ that. She could not fool herself into believing her life would be normal. But she knew, in one corner of her brain, that Sherlock would never _want_ that.

* * *

 

“Holmes, what do you think?” asked Watson.

“I have already told you. Lord Braxton has done this.”

“We need to have more _evidence!”_ Lestrade said vehemently. “The man is vile, he is disgusting. I believe you more than you believe yourself –”

“I doubt it,” scoffed Sherlock.

“But we need something more than his past history, and the fact that he is a Doctor at the hospital where all these women went. We need _more.”_

“You soon will have it,” said Anderson. “Hooper’s made up some reports.”

Watson raised his eyebrows at Anderson. “What?” asked Anderson defensively.

“You called her ‘Hooper’,” noted Watson.

“And?” asked Anderson.

“You tend to call her ‘Miss Hooper’ or ‘Molly Hooper’. You have never addressed her without first addressing her female title,” said Watson delicately.

“Well,” coughed Anderson. “She’s a good worker.”

Watson was smiling to himself. That’s when Sherlock noticed Anderson clearly.

“You _like_ her,” he said suddenly.

“What? _No,”_ said Anderson.

“You _do,”_ said Sherlock. “You think she is admirable, handsome. You like her – you want to _court_ her.”

“What’s wrong with _that?”_ asked Anderson angrily. “She won’t _always_ be at your beck and call! She won’t always stand for your needless requests – she won’t always be giving you spare body parts – yes, don’t think I didn’t notice that.”

Sherlock felt a surge of red-hot anger. “She will never agree – for one, she wants to continue working after marriage. She cannot accept a man who is her superior, it would bring her in bad standing with her co-workers. You will never _understand_ her drive to work, Anderson – and you are not half as intelligent as her.”

“And I suppose she will accept you?” asked Anderson viciously. “You won’t be able to give her anything she desired, much less any sense of normalcy in her life. I could make her happy. I could offer her what she would like. She doesn’t need to give up her profession immediately.”

Sherlock glared at Anderson. Watson pushed Sherlock away, or Sherlock may have committed murder.

* * *

 

On the top of the terrace, she was invisible. Molly felt the wind flutter across by – the clothes hanging blew up like ghosts, ready to haunt her. They deflated again, to reveal their shapes and cuts and other definitions. The world could blur in and out of existence over here, and she may never notice.

The cold November wind was ice on her lips, but she ignored it. It felt perfect – to be invisible, nonexistent. She was not big enough in this world to merit an audience all the time, and at least when she was invisible she could hear _herself._

* * *

 

Lestrade, Sherlock and Watson reached Baker Street intending to collapse on the couches. Mrs. Hudson noticed their exhaustion and fetched the whisky and decanter immediately. “Caught the killer, Mr. Holmes?” she asked cheerfully.

“Why, yes, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, exhilarated.

“No need to look so excited, Holmes,” said Watson.

“You have to allow me some room for happiness, now, Watson,” said Sherlock. “If not when the murder happens then when the killer is caught?”

Watson rolled his eyes. “You’re taking him to Scotland Yard for questioning?” he addressed Lestrade.

“He’s heading to Saint Bartholomew’s first, actually,” said Lestrade. “We need to give him the medical attention he needs.”

“You could do that at the station,” said Sherlock.

“Holmes, you broke his hand. He needs medical attention.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dismissively. He was considering what a difficult fight the man had put up, and how satisfying it had been to find the evidence that had forced him to consider escape.

* * *

 

Sherlock looked outside, with the intention of seeing Lestrade take a cab back to Scotland Yard to interrogate Lord Braxton.

“Holmes?” asked Watson.

“Yes?” he said, as Lestrade watched a cab stop in front of Baker Street.

“Is everything alright? You’ve been a little more... manic than normal.”

Anderson jumped out of the cab. He looked dishevelled.

“I’d love to dissect my emotions with you, Watson, but I am afraid that Anderson is here with some bad news.”

Sherlock quickly picked up his coat, running downstairs. He heard Watson sigh and follow him – where Lestrade was just entering again. “Holmes –” he started.

“What?” asked Sherlock.

“He got away at the hospital,” said Anderson.

“Expected. Desperation. Did you recapture him?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes. But he’s in a bad shape.”

“What happened?” asked Watson.

“He attacked some of the doctors in an effort to leave the hospital – Hooper and Davies were in the way.”

“ _Hooper?”_ asked Sherlock sharply.

“Yes,” continued Anderson hurriedly. “Cut her arm, while Davies suppressed him. Hooper herself managed to hit him in the head hard enough to knock him out.”

Sherlock could hear his ears thumping. 

“Davies and Hooper are alright – bit shaken up, obviously. At least Hooper’s popularity has increased a little.”

“What?” asked Sherlock, his breath caught in his throat.  

Anderson rolled his eyes. “You don’t know much, do you, Holmes? She wasn’t very popular due to her _femininity,_ if you understand what I am saying. She still is highly unpopular, but now she has a little more respect.”

“Watson, we’re going to Saint Bartholomew’s,” Sherlock ordered, as he left the house.

“That’s perfectly normal, isn’t it?” asked Watson with a sigh. “We often rush off to criminals going off on minor rampages for no particular reason. Especially if no one is hurt.”

Sherlock glared at him before they rushed off, with Anderson rolling his eyes.

“What’s the matter with him, you reckon?” asked Lestrade.

“One of the advantages of admiring a woman is that you know who else does as well. He admires a _woman_ ,” said Anderson significantly.

“Holmes? You’re joking,” scoffed Lestrade.

“Not even a little bit,” said Anderson. “Molly’s fond of him as well.”

“And how’d you reckon that?” asked Lestrade, despite himself.

Anderson raised his eyes at Lestrade. “Oh, don’t cite your ‘intuition’,” said Lestrade. Anderson just shrugged.

* * *

 

John noted that Molly looked bruised but not very seriously in danger. She was clearly worn out, and a bit battered, but she was simply continuing her work carelessly. Men around her were giving not-so-savoury looks to her.

“Afternoon, Molly,” said John pleasantly.

“Oh, Doctor Watson!” she said, and smiled. “Hello. What brings you here?”

“Your _friend_ has an odd sense of timing,” said John as Holmes glared at Molly.

“What?” she asked him, her ‘T’ cutting sharply as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Another badly done dissection? Do you want more thumbs, because there’s a jar on my table.”

“What made you _think_ to take on Lord Braxton? He’s _twice_ your size!” said Holmes vehemently.

“I’m sorry?” said Molly, opening her eyes. “For one thing, I didn’t exactly have a _choice_ in the matter, Mr. Holmes. For another thing, I survived, didn’t I?”

“At the risk of being severely injured!” he said, and for once, John felt like he could hear genuine fear in his voice.

She narrowed her eyes at him, and John prayed she had a good defence ready.

“Why do you care?” she asked darkly. She returned to her body. “Go away, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes looked so thunderstruck John almost felt sorry for him. He didn’t in reality, for Molly had much more of a point that Holmes was willing to concede to.

He was about to open his mouth, when Molly cut through: “Mr. Holmes, this man has a severe brain injury, and it is a very _long_ procedure to remove the skull cap – apparently, thanks to your brother, I have to work on all the cases _you_ find interesting – and Inspector Lestrade asked me to do this one. I have a long and tiring day ahead of me and I have already been attacked once. My co-workers are split in binaries over why a woman was allowed to work in the hospital since a ready target for murderers on the rampage was available – and over how I _did_ manage to bash the man up anyway. It’s very difficult being in their heads right now, because if they agree that I was a soft target, they disregard the bashing, and if they agree on the bashing, they disregard my gender – which is impossible for men to comprehend. I would love to take the rest of the day off as Doctor Stamford offered, but then I would be considered incompetent for not being able to work after the bashing – never mind the fact that Doctor Wilkes _did_ get to leave. Unfortunately for me, _I_ – not you – will be facing the brunt of this and I am in no mood to handle your arbitrary behavioural swings as well.”

John suppressed laughter at Holmes’ expression.

“Molly!” said Holmes.

“Mr. Holmes, _please_ call me Doctor Hooper or Hooper in front of my colleagues,” she sighed, examining the body again. “And anyway, who are _you_ to worry about my health?”

John would have loved to stay and allow Molly to tear Holmes down a little more, but she was beginning to look a little dangerous with the scalpel. He didn’t doubt her harmlessness, but one really shouldn’t cross a woman who looked like she had nothing to lose but her sanity. He dragged Holmes away from her.

People like Molly Hooper had to do so much to keep their sanity anyway; it really would be a shame is Holmes lost his lady-love thanks to stupidity on his part and mental instability on hers.

* * *

 

“Why didn’t you allow me to speak to her?” asked Holmes angrily.

“Did you see her, Holmes?” asked John. “She would have you on her slab next.”

“Molly? Never,” scoffed Holmes.

“Have a little regard for the girl, Sherlock. She won’t always stay with you,” said Mary cheerfully.  

“No,” he brooded. “Perhaps she won’t. Most people don’t.”

“That’s ungrateful of you,” said John, offended. “I have stayed for a while now, haven’t I?”

“So have I!” said Mary indignantly.

“You both don’t count,” dismissed Holmes.

“Why not? I have to deal with your behavioural swings just as much, your stupidity, not to mention your arbitrary nature.”

“And I have to manage your brooding nature, your idiotic rumination, and your persistent need to be beaten at Chess by me.”

“Why do you, then?” asked Holmes. He seemed genuinely baffled.

“You really are an idiot, Holmes,” sighed John.

“What would you have us say? That we love you?” asked Mary with a smile.  

“Do you?” asked Holmes, immediately.

“Would it matter if we did?” asked John, rolling her eyes.

“It would give me some insight into Molly’s behaviour,” said Holmes.

Mary’s lips twitched. “Drink your tea, Sherlock,” she said.

“Why _do_ you have me as your friend?” asked Holmes, determined for an answer. “I’m unreasonable, apathetic to religion and children – I will be a terrible uncle for your unborn child – congratulations, by the way. I am cruel, unnecessarily unkind, and very difficult to live with. What is it you like? Watson stays for the thrill. Mary, I do not _understand_ what you see in me.”

“What?” asked John. Mary? Children? _What –_

“I’m _pregnant?”_ asked Mary.

“Lord alone knows,” said John.

“What, you didn’t _know?”_ asked Holmes. “She’s definitely pregnant.”

“My God, Holmes, why _do_ we put up with you?” asked John, feeling disgruntled.

“Exactly!” said Holmes triumphantly.

Mary was grinning again. “It’s part of your charm, dear,” she said finally. “I suppose Molly must really love you – I can barely tolerate you for a evening tea, while she actually lived with you.”

“Yes,” said Holmes, looking away. He seemed thoughtful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are my staple diet.


	12. When The Stars Threw Down Their Spears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic came out of nowhere. 
> 
> This may be a bit of a long AN so bear with me because I have to express something that I have been holding in for a while: where the fuck did this fic come from and where did it go? 
> 
> I confess, this was meant as a joke. I didn't do research, I depended on my Romantic poets and other random information squirrelled away from reading too much British literature - and, frankly, I didn't know why people liked this fic so much anyway. It's a PERSONAL MAID TROPE, for crying out loud. This wasn't supposed to be taken seriously. 
> 
> But this one actually transcended me. People were fighting over small characters in the comments, telling me how much they thought about what I was writing and generally stressing me out by how much I hadn't thought about my own fic?? Someone found a Jane Eyre parallel and I think it was about this time that I threw my hands in the air and said "Okay so I don't know who is writing this but it ain't me." My beta Tingy - too psychology department to function was making literary analysis x 10. I just. I don't even know. 
> 
> And then there were major names in Sherlolly coming to visit. I swear to God, I meant to write three chapters and be done with it. That was what the plan was - just a funny maid trope for TheLittleSparrow as her exams ended. Turns out, TheLittleSparrow was reading the fic after her exams and she said to me "I actually forgot that there was a real person I know behind the screen writing this." On the same spectrum of emotions, InMollysWildestDreams says "I might like this fic more than I like you." 
> 
> Thanks guys. Thanks a lot. 
> 
> Shout out to darthsydious, who helped me with the little research I did do - being the best sherlolly writer for Victorian (trust me on this). 
> 
> Biggest shout out to Tingy, however, who made this fic fun to write bc she used to make Mean Girls references in the comments. On that note, I should tell you that this chapter may not be very well edited because Tingy was, in her own words "Too engrossed," to beta. And also, Tingy would like me to issue a warning that she feels like the only way to cope with the end of the story is to terrorise reviewers in the comments - so please comment at your own risk. 
> 
> And finally - the title of the last chapter is something that I actually did have in mind since I started writing this. Not fully a Romantic poet, but this is one of my favourite poems - and it is from my favourite stanzas. As such, the line is presented without any appropriation whatsoever. I give you - William Blake's "The Tiger." 
> 
> I will have a full list of poets used for the chapter titles here. Farewell, friends - and enjoy.

**1\. Chapter 1: Wandered Lonely Without a Job. Poet - William Wordsworth, original poem title "Wandered Lonely As a Cloud."**  
**2\. Chapter 2: She Walks in Rationality. Poet: Lord Byron, original poem title "She Walks in Beauty."**  
**3\. Chapter 3: Fled is the Music - The Violin Broke. Poet - John Keats, poem, "Ode to a Nightingale." Original line, "Fled is the music/Do I wake or sleep?"**  
**4\. Chapter 4: A Painted Maid in a Painted Home. Poet - Samuel Taylor Coleridge, poem, "Rime Of The Ancient Mariner." Original line, "A painted ship upon a painted ocean."**  
**5\. Chapter 5: To Follow Logic Like a Sinking Star. Poet - Tennyson, poem, "Ulysses." Original line, "To follow knowledge like a sinking star."**  
**6\. Chapter 6: Look On My London. Poet - PC Shelley, poem, "Ozymandias." Original line, "Look on my works."**  
**7\. Chapter 7: All Be As Is Now, Love. Poet - Robert Browning, poem, "A Woman's Last Word." Original line, "All be as before love."**  
**8\. Chapter 8: Write My Mind Tonight. Poet - Elizabeth Barret Browning, poem, "A Curse For a Nation." Original line, "Shalt thou write/my curse to-night."**  
**9\. Chapter 9: We'll Tak a Cup of Sentiment Yet. Poet - Robert Burns, poem "Auld Lang Syne." Original line, "We'll tak a cup of kindness yet."**  
**10\. Chapter 10: Now Speak, That Thou Art Left Alone. Poet - Mary Darby Robinson, poem, "All Alone." Original line, "And weep, that thou art left alone?"**  
**11\. Chapter 11: Breathe Not Her Name. Poet - Thomas Moore, original poem title, "O Breathe Not His Name."**  
**12\. Chapter 12: When The Stars Threw Down Their Spears. Poet - William Blake, poem - "The Tiger." Stanza five, line one.**

* * *

 

Sherlock was sitting on his chair, the tips of his fingers touching while his eyes were shut.

She _could_ have died today.

It was not _statistically_ possible, he knew. Someone would have stopped the desperate Lord trying to leave the populated building. She had been bruised, a little hurt – but not particularly badly off. Nevertheless, one minute here and there – one concealed weapon – _anything_ and she may have died.

And that was just not today, Sherlock thought irrationally. Anything could happen to her at any time – she may be walking across construction areas, without concern for her surroundings – and equipment might fall on her. She may die at sea – never mind that she had never shown the inclination for going to sea. She may choke on small pieces she accidentally swallowed and die. She may die _any_ day.

Sherlock had never been more aware of her mortality. Small Molly Hooper was just as vulnerable to disease as Anderson, even if he was a more worthy candidate.

He remembered the way his heart had raced ridiculously, or the way his body had broken into cold sweat.

This was absurd. The same was true for John, for Mary, for Mrs. Hudson and – to some extent, Lestrade. Why was Sherlock reacting so irrationally to Molly’s escape from death?

It was because he hadn’t seen her in a while. Because she was angry with him, as was evidenced by her reaction to him. Some misplaced sense of sentiment lingered, he decided.

But when he had seen her face again the only thing he had thought of was _thank god._ When she had smiled at Watson he had never been more grateful that her lasting memory of him would be his cruelty.

Molly – like Watson – would not take advantage of his worry. She would not play games with him over it. But he was more terrified of how comfortable he was of showing Molly his worry than he was of showing Watson.

* * *

 

“He hasn’t _stepped_ out of the house, Mrs. Hudson,” said Anne in a hushed whisper.

“I know, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson with would-be placidity.

“Constantly playing the violin!” added Anne, emphasising a point.

“I know,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“Well, what do you make of it?” demanded Anne.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Hudson with a sigh. “I really don’t. Never been like this, Mr. Holmes. I wonder what’s wrong.”

“Well, aren’t you going to find out?” asked Anne.

“Heaven alone knows that he will not tell me,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Meanwhile, I enjoy listening to him play.”

* * *

 

“Mr. Holmes, your brother is here to see you,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Get yourself together, Sherlock ,” she added softly.

Sherlock ignored her, choosing not to bother with doing anything about his mangy appearance.

“Sherlock,” greeted Mycroft coolly.

“Evening,” said Sherlock. “I’d ring for tea, but that would only prolong your stay – so I am not going to.”

Mycroft smiled sardonically. “Have you been in so bad a temper since you started having regular _tiffs_ with Molly Hooper or after she left you?”

“She did not leave me,” defended Sherlock, at once.

“It certainly did not come from your side, even if it was encouraged by you,” said Mycroft. “You are far too attached to your goldfish to abandon them, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Don’t you have a few wars to start?”

“Maybe by dinner. Right now, Scotland Yard is finding itself without a brain for over four days. I decided to _step in_ and see what was causing you so much pain where solving murders is concerned.”

“What are you here for, Mycroft?” asked Sherlock, uncharacteristically tired.

“Good God, if you like the woman so much, marry her,” said Mycroft, rolling her eyes.

“This, coming from _you,”_ said Sherlock sarcastically. “What next, sing songs, take a ship to the Caribbean and find out the meaning of life?”

“Hardly,” said Mycroft. “I do not espouse –”

“Chemical defects,” completed Sherlock.

Mycroft smile again. “No, I do not. I do not believe in attachment – you know this,” said Mycroft.

“Then why are you telling me to marry her?” asked Sherlock, not expecting an answer.

“Because while I manage to operate best without attachment, the same cannot be said for you,” said Mycroft. “Clearly,” he added, his eyes raking across the mess of the room and finally – across Sherlock’s person.

Sherlock frowned. “What are you saying?”

“Brother mine, what I am saying is – you might as well marry her, if not being married to her is going to bring you down to your knees like this. Not everybody can operate without attachment, and it is regrettable yet unavoidable.”

Sherlock honestly did not have any answers to that.

* * *

 

“Honestly, Holmes, what is wrong with you?” asked Watson in a low voice.

“I’m practicing. Go away.”

“For _five_ days?” asked Watson, incredulous. “What on earth happened?”

Sherlock looked away.

“Sherlock – honestly, what’s wrong?”

Sherlock got out of his chair and shook his hair, running his fingers through it. “What if I told you that a woman caused this?”

“I would say, ‘was it Molly?’” said Watson. “Followed immediately by ‘don’t tell me it was Irene Adler.’”

Sherlock frowned. “The Woman never managed to do this – whatever this is.”

“What’s happened, Holmes?” said Watson patiently.

“I do not _know,”_ said Sherlock, frustrated. “I border on wanting to see her, kiss her, marry her, talk to her, and run away from her.”

“ _What?”_ asked Watson, surprised. “ _Marry?_ You? Holmes? _You?_ I don’t – _you?”_

Sherlock glared at him. “This is why I hate speaking to you about this, Watson.”

“No, honestly, _you?”_

“Yes,” he said with a directness that Watson was clearly not expecting. “It would be preferable if I could kiss her without it being a secret,” said Sherlock delicately.

“This is _bizarre,”_ said Watson, reeling. Sherlock wanted to tear his hair out.

“Sounds like you should do everything except the latter – that is, run away from her,” said Watson. “And please do not tell me about whether you want to kiss her or not. Best saved for private ears.”

“Watson, I am not an easy man to live with.”

“Yet she did it for two years,” said Watson.

“She was being paid to,” said Holmes, collapsing on his chair again.

“Yes, that was why she assisted you with cases,” said Watson. “Or why she helped you with experiments – or even why she agreed to befriend you. Holmes, Molly Hooper was never meant to sit at home and be _wifely.”_

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“Besides the obvious issues you are having with grappling with your new-found liking for this girl, what’s stopping you?” asked Watson finally.

“I did not say _kind_ things – the last time we spoke at length,” said Sherlock, skirting around the problem.

“Apologise,” said Watson at once. “Flowers, maybe. That normally works.”

“It’s not exactly something that can be water under the bridge with one apology.”

“Do it twice,” said Watson. “Grovel. It doesn’t matter.”

“How did Mary marry you?” asked Sherlock.

“Out of the two of us, who has a wife?” asked Watson. “Therefore, who has the more relevant opinion on the matter?”

Sherlock had the childish urge to stick his tongue out at Watson.

* * *

 

_[Scribbles from Molly Hooper’s Notebooks, Christmas, 1895_

_\- Collect groceries from Jimmy._

_\- Buy some fresh milk._

_\- Prepare yourself for a long and lonely winter, Molly Hooper._

* * *

 

Sherlock squared his shoulders before he entered the morgue. He was really not certain whether this would work, however, Watson had, at least, tried to point him in a certain direction – unlike Mycroft who had grimaced and had nothing to offer.

“ _Be kind. Compliment her, Holmes. Try to make it sincere. And, under no circumstances should you say something which is intrinsically manipulative.”_

* * *

 

Molly was busy running some experiment when Mr. Holmes entered. Her recent studies on bruise formations was going fairly well, and she felt comfortable in the morgue now. Christmas was coming – and she was working during the holidays.

This was partly because she did not want to go to Newcastle again and partly because she didn’t want to be lonely during the holiday season. In addition, most of her colleagues were not going to work during this time.

Molly was used to being left alone. Although she did have a lot of doctors working around her, the morgue was a relatively quiet place with lesser people. It helped her position – she could ignore her colleagues for disliking her.

She had not expected it to be easy. She had expected to be worked to the death with cases which were not worthy of her time, to be treated as a secretary, or worse – to be a woman who was forced to leave. All of this was possible – and she grudgingly admitted this to herself – due to Mr. Holmes.

* * *

 

_Be kind._

Right. He could be kind. It was possible.

* * *

 

“Hello, Molly, do you require some assistance with heavy objects?” said Mr. Holmes uncharacteristically from behind her.

If Molly was not used to it, she would have jumped a mile in the air.

As it was, she blinked at him. “No...” she said cautiously. “I’m doing an experiment, Mr. Holmes. No heavy objects – for now.”

“Right. Of course,” he said. He seemed ill at ease. “Anything else?”

Molly narrowed her eyes. “What do you want, Mr. Holmes?” she said, exasperated.

“What?” asked Sherlock.

“You. What is it you want? Some more thumbs? An arm? Perhaps a few fingers?”

“No – I don’t need –”

“There’s a jar with a fresh pancreas on my desk, Mr. Holmes. Help yourself,” she said, returning to her experiment.

The man was a complete nuisance. She ignored him entirely.

* * *

 

Sherlock clutched the jar with the pancreas.

_That went... well?_

Females made no sense whatsoever. Constantly requiring help and then denying it when most needed.

Sherlock had the nagging suspicion that Watson was going to blame him squarely for how this interaction went. At least he had a pancreas.

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes was behaving very oddly. He tended to hover around her and she didn’t know what to make of it. It wasn’t something that she could escape, either – since the holidays meant an emptier hospital.

Molly was baffled by the way he was trying, very obviously, to secure favours that she was already very willing to give without his grovelling. It made no sense – and out of frustration, she had given him a whole liver. Doctor Anderson lost his temper at her when she did that.

She didn’t know what to make of it.

* * *

 

“It’s not _working,_ John!” said Sherlock, smoking his pipe furiously.

“It’s not _going_ to work if you continue to operate as if she’s a glass figure in danger of shattering!” said Watson. “Mary, tell him!”

Mary flipped through the newspaper. “Oh, I’m sorry, I lost the conversation entirely. What are we talking about? Right, the same thing that we spoke about an hour and a half ago.”

“Mary!” said Sherlock and Watson in unison.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry Sherlock. I am not helping you here. Whatever you did to that woman is your problem.”

* * *

 

_Compliment her. Sound sincere._

That seems simple?

Sherlock would prefer an axe murderer, to be honest.

* * *

 

Molly was working on some files. She had to give in a lot of reports that she was yet to fill out. Sherlock walked into her office, and smiled at her in a way that made her consider whether or not he was being threatened by an axe murderer.

Molly looked behind her, disconcerted by his smile.

“Mr. Holmes?” she asked, turning to her papers with an expression that she hoped conveyed ‘not-this-again.’

“Molly. Blue suits you. Compliments your muddy brown hair very well,” he said.

Molly paused in the middle of writing something. “I’m sorry?” she said.

“And your body is shaped very aesthetically. The small stature is very pleasing,” he added.

Molly scrutinized him.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said carefully. “Are you particularly nauseous?” she asked.

“What? _No!”_ he said.

“Any pain? Any fevers? Any signs of bodily harm? Did you box again?”

“Molly, I am _not_ mentally unstable.”

“You’re complimenting my _muddy brown_ hair!” said Molly indignantly.

“Is that wrong?” he asked. There was something _wrong_ with him.

“Alright, Mr. Holmes,” she said patiently. “I really do not have any new body parts. The liver was the last thing in my power. I cannot quite give you a whole body, can I?”

He looked so frustrated, Molly could swear she saw steam coming out of his ears.

* * *

 

_[Scribbles from Molly Hooper’s Notebooks, Christmas Time, 1895]_

_Meena is busy with Christmas, so I cannot ask her to visit. I will visit her sometime soon, but in the meanwhile, I have to voice my doubts about Mr. Holmes’ sanity_ somewhere.

_He’s behaving in so strange a way that I cannot coin what is wrong with him. He tends to compliment in the most bizarre way, and his tendency to hover has become even worse than before. I do not know what to say to him, much less what to do about him._

* * *

 

_Compliment her._

This time, it would work, decided Sherlock. Idiotic Molly Hooper and her idiotic obliviousness.

* * *

 

He burst into the Morgue this time. Molly actually did jump from her papers this time, and looked at him, blinking.

“Molly!” he said, loudly. One or two odd workers in some of their last days looked up at him.

“Yes?” she said, a bit taken aback.

“I read your analysis on bruise formation after death,” he said. “It was excellent.”

Molly blinked again. “Um. Thank you?”

He nodded. “Right.”

And he was gone. Molly blinked at her colleagues.

“He’s... having a difficult week,” she managed.

* * *

 

“Tell me again,” said Watson, rubbing his eyes. “You managed to compliment her, you managed to have her responding – but you forgot to initiate the apology and ask for marriage?”

“I forgot!” said Sherlock, collapsing on a chair at the Watson’s.

“Never send a man to do _any_ job, am I right my dear?” said Mary to her tummy.

“Not this time, Mary,” said Sherlock viciously. “This time. I have a plan.”

* * *

 

“What’s wrong with Holmes?” asked Lestrade.

“I suspect my brother is only trying to win Molly Hooper over,” said Mycroft, boredly. “In any case, it doesn’t concern me. What is it you wanted, Inspector?”

“Your brother hasn’t been taking cases for a while,” said Lestrade. “Watson refuses to tell me anything, and Anderson is too worried about livers. Honestly, I don’t know what’s happening to everybody around me.”

“Pity. You would understand a lot more, Inspector,” said Mycroft.

* * *

 

“Well, watchoo say?” asked Meena.

“He said ‘ _blue suits your muddy brown hair!’_ ” said Molly, pacing around Meena’s home. “He told me that my ‘small stature’ was pleasing? Meena!”

Meena was laughing. “What?” she asked. “’Ee’s an odd bird. Not my problem.”

“It is _mine,”_ said Molly.

Meena yawned. “Look ‘ow much I care. Far as I know, ‘ee’s tryin to apologise to you in ‘is funny little brain.”

Molly sat on a chair and buried her head into her arms.

* * *

 

_Dear Sally,_

_I know I haven’t written in a while, but I have been very busy with work. Thank you for your insights in the Warner case, I passed them onto Detective Inspector Lestrade. He’s promised to keep an eye out for you more often, and I intend to hold him to his word._

_I, on the other hand, have been working around a thousand different bodies – well, I am exaggerating. However, murder is difficult to put into your routine. I was doing it with Mr. Holmes, obviously, but not on such a personal level. I’m working through the problems I am having with my colleagues – but it’s not easy sailing._

_Speaking of, how’s Roger? I hope he’s coming for Christmas this time. If he is – he ought to have already reached, obviously. I am completely unaware of the circumstances of your family right now, Sally – and I do apologise. I had to adjust work hours in my life, which seems to take up a lot of mental space._

_Right now, I have to go for the same work I complain about so much. For all my complaints, I am being allowed to do what I love – and at very little price that most women pay in terms of dignity and time. I cannot and will not complain about my circumstances. Even if Consulting Detectives walk in every now and then to destroy everything by behaving out of character._

_Yours,_

_Molly_

* * *

 

_This time. This time for sure._

London glittered under Christmas Eve decorations. Sherlock headed to the Morgue.

_This time._

* * *

 

 

Molly was finishing the reports for the day when Mr. Holmes decided to walk in once again.

“What?” she asked, immediately. “More strange compliments? I don’t need your assistance, if that’s what you wish to give. What?”

“I was wondering if you could show me Mr. Warner again,” he said crisply.

Molly’s shoulders fell. “Of course,” she said at once.

She opened out the body for Sherlock, wondering if he was back to crime solving instead of whatever he had been doing so far. “So – Mr. Warner appears to have suffered from asphyxiation –”

“Miss Hooper, would you care to get married to me?” he said.

“- And there... are – wire... marks... around – his neck,” Molly’s voice trailed off.

He looked at the body, flipping through Molly’s reports. “Wife. This was far too simple.”

“Excuse me?” said Molly.

“The wife. You can see it from the way –”

“No,” said Molly, shaking her head to check if she had anything in her ears. “The bit before that.”

“Oh, right. I felt the need to shock you into believing my very sincere efforts to apologise to you for the last week or so,” said Sherlock. Molly blinked at him. “Every time I tried to be kind, you thought I was trying to manipulate you into giving me body parts – ridiculous, I never need to manipulate you. Every time I tried complimenting you, you thought I was suffering from personality-altering diseases. I had no option but to make my meaning clear.”

“Which was that you wished to marry me?” asked Molly sarcastically.

Sherlock nodded.

“Mr. Holmes, you cannot give a woman no warning before asking her for her hand in marriage!” declared Molly.

“I did give you warning!” said Sherlock.

“Yes, I do remember you courting me in the most elegant of fashions,” said Molly.

“Honestly, if more courting is required then I’ll just ask you to cut my neck with your scalpel.”

“No!” said Molly. “What makes you believe that I would say yes to you after the way you treated me?” she asked angrily. “You made me feel like a dishcloth, Mr. Holmes. Worse, an experiment performed on a dishcloth. You made me feel like I should never have aspired for your kindness, and even lesser for your love. Why would I want to be with a man who treats me like a dishcloth?”

Sherlock paused, looking decidedly ill at ease. Molly waited.

“I wish to apologise,” he said, finally. “Molly – I am not good – with words. Well, not the sentimental ones. But I wish to apologise, because I was cruel – and terrible. But most because I made you cry. I don’t ever want to stand on the other side of the room and not have the power to comfort you.”

Molly’s mouth dried. Despite herself, her heart was relenting. She stood her ground.

“Why did you do it?” she asked softly.

“Because I was scared,” he said, without bothering for more excuses.

“That’s not enough,” she said. “This isn’t a romantic novel, Mr. Holmes. I do not swoon at blood, and a lot lesser at men who apologise to me.”

“I have nothing else to give you,” he said. “I was scared of how much I cared, even more of how much you did. People who care for me end up either hurt or dead, Molly Hooper.”

“We will die anyway, Sherlock,” said Molly. “That’s not a very good excuse.”

“There are thirteen ways this was supposed to end, and you are not heading in any of those directions, Molly,” said Sherlock, frowning.

“What?” asked Molly.

“Well, I calculated thirteen responses to my approach, and you are following none of them,” he said, looking frustrated.

“Are you telling me that you scientifically calculated the best proposal?” asked Molly, torn between laughter and severity.

“Well – yes. You see, you cannot leave such things to – oh. Was that wrong?” he said, looking at her poker face.

“You tell me whether the perfectly created mathematically calculated proposal does not sound manipulative, Mr. Holmes?” said Molly, despite her amusement.

“I – no – Molly – you have to –” he ran a hand through his hair. “This was certainly _not_ in the outcomes.”

“Sherlock, you really are one of the strangest men I have met,” said Molly finally. “Why do you suddenly wish to marry me?”

“It would be ideal,” he said. “My spouse shares financial benefits, not to mention more protection after I die. You are scientific, and you care about me. You understand my work – I am getting fairly old, and it would do my mother good to see me married –”

“None of that, Mr. Holmes,” said Molly. “Why do you want to marry me?”

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again. “Do you love me?” she prompted.

“I don’t believe I can love,” he said.

“Chemical defect on the losing side, I know,” Molly rattled off. “Then why?”

“Molly, I may not know whether I am in love, or whether love as a concept exists in humans,” said Sherlock deliberately. “But I know that I find you illogically beautiful, that I care to hear your voice – and that if you did manage to disappear from the world entirely, I may even start taking my cocaine solutions again. I need you. I don’t know if I love you, but I want you. I want to kiss you, and I want to touch you – I don’t want to forget that. You don’t have to be in love to appreciate that.”

Molly’s face burned. She could feel the tears forming.

Sherlock reached for her. Molly almost fell into his arms, but preserved her dignity when he touched her face with just as much desperation. They did not kiss, simply holding each other for the sake of touching – afraid of how improper it would be considered if they were found.

“How do I know you will not leave again?” she asked, finally. She stepped out of his embrace. “What is it that is going to have you running away this time?”

“You don’t,” he said. “But you have to trust me.”

“I did that the first time,” she said softly. “I don’t want to do it again.” She didn’t _want_ to forgive him that simply. It would be too easy... too convenient for him.

She knew what Meena would say. She wondered what Lizzie would say.

Lizzie may be ridiculous and hard to get along with; but she was a romantic at heart – more so than Molly. Molly maintained her cynicism, while Lizzie had never known enough hardship to believe that romance couldn’t exist.

 _“Everything makes love so difficult as it is, Molly,”_ she would say. “ _Why do you create more obstacles for the blessed thing?”_

There was merit in that argument, but Molly didn’t think that it was as simple. Love may be hard without additional effort, but love was also stupid. You could not trust it.

“I understand if you don’t,” he said. With those five words, Molly knew that Sherlock had made an effort. People didn’t change, she not overnight. But the effort should be relevant. “I will leave for now.”

He turned around, and Molly knew where her decision was going before she said the words:

“Oh for heaven’s sake, turn, Sherlock,” she said. “I refuse to run down the street. It’s _another_ cliché, and half my life is a cliché right now. It would be convenient if I turned up at Baker Street, but frankly, I don’t want to spend the cab fare.”

Sherlock turned around, and Molly resisted running into his arms. She was avoiding clichés, she decided categorically.

“You say yes?” he asked, looking genuinely incredulous.

“I say _maybe._ I might consider it. If you do the right things,” she said. “And that doesn’t mean you come and pester me with sweet little speeches. I want to be courted,” she added. “I want you to take me to dances, I want you to take me for different dinners. I want everything. I cannot believe I have to demand this _before_ the wedding.”

“Alright,” he said. “Why, though?”

“It would be highly suspicious if the maid to Mr. Sherlock Holmes ended up married to him before someone has time to say ‘it’s a shotgun wedding.’ I’d rather not have my colleagues talking. It would be inconvenient,” she said. “And I’d like an excuse to wear pretty dresses.”

“Right,” said Sherlock. Molly scrutinized his face.

“Don’t ever make the mistake of holding me back, Sherlock,” she added. “Don’t underestimate my dedication.”

“I did so once,” he said. “Only an idiot makes the same mistake twice.”

He strode towards her, crossing the distance in three steps. Without warning, he kissed her, and Molly did not have the mental strength to protest as his lips pressed into hers. She felt his tongue flick across her teeth, and she remembered – with a shudder, how much she had missed it.

“Oh, heaven help me,” Molly muttered. “Meena is going to laugh at me to no end.”

Sherlock chuckled against her lips.

“Sherlock, really,” she whispered. “I said ‘ _no’_. I wish to be courted, remember?”

He left her, and Molly regretted her words almost immediately. “Miss Hooper, would you care for an escort home?” he asked her politely.

“Why yes, Mr. Holmes,” said Molly with a smile. “And it is _Doctor Hooper.”_

His lips twitched. She put his arm around his, and for the first time, she considered how brilliant it would be to have public claim over his arm. As they hailed a cab together, Molly grinned at the way she _could_ be with him in public now.

The cab disappeared into the winter fog of Christmas Eve night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was wild from start to finish. 
> 
> You've all been an awesome - and stay that way, thanks very much. World needs people like you guys, who stress authors out by how much more you have thought of their own story. 
> 
> As always, I love reviews.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are love!


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